353 


•NRLF 


THE 

BLOSSOMY 

BOUGH 


B   3   331 


Shaemas 
O  Sheel 


The 

Blossomy    Bough 


POEMS 


SHAEMAS  OSHEEL 


PUBLISHED  BY  SHAEMAS  O  SHEEL  THRU  THE  FRANKLIN  PRESS 
124  WEST  igTH  STREET,  NEW  YORK  CITY 


Copyright,    1911,  by  Shaemas  O  Sheel 


In  making  up  and  sending  forth  this 

first  volume  of  my  verse, 

I  wish  to  inscribe  it  as  a  whole 

to 

Edwin  Markham  and  Catharine  MarJ^ham, 

who,  in  the  words  of  the  latter  to  Mrs.  William  Sharp, 
Brought  Me  Up     Poetically. 

Shaemas  O  Sheet. 


96 
THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ROSE 

THAT  IS  WHITE  AND  RED 


PROEM 

My  song  is  such  a  little  thing, 

Ah  such  a  little  thing  ! 
It  is  not  loud,  it  is  not  long, 

And  vvherefor  should  I  sing  : 
A  faint  and  feeble  spring  it  is, 

A  flower  that  fades  with  night  ; 
A  bird  with  broken  wing  it  is 

That  fails  and  falls  in  flight. 


A  bird  with  broken  wing  it  is 

And  yet  must  never  die, 
Because  it  bears  a  word  of  love 

Athwart  the  lonely  sky  ; 
At  last,  at  last  its  cry  will  reach, 

True  as  a  driven  dart, 
At  last  my  song  and  I  will  reach 

My  pale  proud  Lady's  heart. 


336302 


THE  ROSE-BREATH 


A  TRILOGY  OF  LOVE  NEW-BORN 

THE    FIRST    DAY 

There  are  my  friends  in  other,  distant  places, 

To  see  whom  I  have  yearned  by  day  and  night  ; 
To  whom  I've  longed  to  go,  across  the  spaces, 

The  long  low  lands,  that  keep  them  from  my  sight 
To-night  all  these  my  thoughts  have  quite  forsaken, 

A  nearer,  newer  vision  fills  mine  eye, 
Of  hair  as  brown  as  Autumn  leaves,  light-shaken 

Above  a  face  where  all  white  roses  lie. 


THE    SECOND     DAY 

All  day,  all  day  do  I  think  of  thee, 

And  a  fiery  fervor  burns  in  me, 

And  in  the  hour  of  my  dull  employ 

I  fly  to  the  Farthest  Isle  with  thee, 

The  Farthest  Isle  of  the  Western  Sea  : 

And  there  we  live,  while  the  passionate  winds 

Cry  us  "  Love  !  "  and  urge  "  Embrace  !  " 

And  I  clasp  —  O  Supple  Reed  !  —  thy  form, 

And  I  kiss  —  White  Rose  !  —  thy  face  ! 


THE     THIRD    DAY 


0  dearest  form  in  the  world,  O  fairest  face, 

1  would  claim  you  and  force  my  claim  with  a  close   embrace  ! 
I  would  look  long  into  your  eyes  till  the  virgin  doubt 

Dies,  and  the  earth-lights  die  and  the  stars  go  out, 
And  only  mine  eyes  and  the  answering  eyes  of  you 
Burn  like  blue  flames,  O  deepest  passionate  blue  ! 


THE  POET  DESIRES  HIS  LADY  BECAUSE 

SHE  IS  BOTH  THE  WHITE  ROSE  AND  THE  RED 

If  only  the  pallor  of  white  petals  made  you  fair, 

Tho  your  soul  were  the  crystal  that  holds  the  mysteries  of  all  times 

I  would  not  have  known  that  my  fate  was  upon  me  when  I  saw 

you  there, 

Nor  that  I  must  henceforth  put  you  in  all  my  rimes. 
And  always  I  had  seen  those  who  are  only  crimson  and  I  did  not 

care  : 
When  you  passed  I  arose  to  search  for  you  thru  all  climes. 

1  know  that  you  wait  for  me  inviolably  pure  and  white, 

I  know  that  you  wait  for  me  tending  a  flame  that  is  red  : 

I  will   find  you  and  gaze  in  your  soul  and  make  your  soul   more 

white, 
1  will  breathe  on  your  passion  and  we  shall  be  lost  in  flames  that 

are  red. 


THE  POET  PRAYS  FOR  HIS  LADY 

With  folded  hands  and  with  head  bowed  low  I  have  sunk  to  the 

earth, 

For  I  would  pray  as  1  never  have  prayed  since  birth  : 
Oh  I  would  utter  some  beautiful  burning  word 
That  must  turn  to  a  white  pure  flame  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord, 
Who  from  His  throne  will  say  "  Go,  passionate  flame, 
Light  thou  his  Lady's  path  in  my  Holy  Name, 
Be  thou  a  star  to  her  eyes  and  a  lamp  to  her  feet 
And  a  guiding  pillar  of  fire  where  the  crossways  meet  ; 
Pause  not  in  places  of  peril  —  O  thence  be  fleet, 
But  kindle  the  torches  of  pleasure  where  life  is  sweet  !  " 
So  well  would  I  pray,  yet  I  utter  never  a  word  : 
What  word  will  flame  as  a  fire  at  the  feet  of  the  Lord  ? 
What  prayer  can  I  make  that  God  will  set  as  a  star 
Over  the  ways  where  my  Lady's  journeys  are  ? 
There  is  but  one  prayer  in  my  soul,  and  the  whole  thereof 
As  I  send  it  burning  to  God  is  the  word  '«  I  Love  !  " 


THE    LOVER  TELLS    HIS  DREAMS  OF  HIS    LADY 

O  Love  my  Love, 

How  nearer  than  the  red  blood  of  my  veins 
Thou  hast  come  to  my  heart,  and  how  more  near 
Than  my  most  intimate  old-time  hope  or  fear 
The  thought  of  thee  has  mounted  to  my  brain's 
Supremest  seat,  and  is  the  queen  thereof ! 


O  Love  my  Love, 

Thou  hast  fanned  into  flame  my  being's  fires, 

Only  to  thee  their  fervency  aspires, 

Thee  only  every  wakened  sense  desires  ! 

From  death  thou  hast  called  me  unto  life,  alas, 

Only  to  die  if  this  great  dream  should  pass  ! 


But  surely,  surely  love  is  the  procreant  word, 
Which  being  heard 

By  two  together  breathed,  will  summon  dreams 
Out  of  the  womb  of  wistful  futile  things, 
And  give  them  wings 

To  soar  and  be  more  great,  being  real,  than  the  fair  promise  seems. 
So  I  will  dream  and  tell  my  dreams  to  thee, 
Till  thou  hear'st  "  Love  !  "  thru  all,  and  breathest  '«  Love  !  " 
to  me. 


Like  the  fresh  melody  of  morning  birds 

Sweetly  about  me  ever  wing  thy  words, 

Thy  voice,  thy  voice  ! 

I  build  my  dreams  into  an  arched  hall 

And  a  wide  garden  with  a  flowering  wall, 

And  life  is  as  a  gentle  carnival, 

And  I  rejoice 

Forever  in  the  music  of  thy  voice, 

Thy  voice  ! 

O  gladly  thru  my  echoing  halls  forever 

It  must  ring, 

And  gladly  by  my  flowering  walls  forever 

It  must  sing, 

Thv  voice  ! 


And  O  dear  eyes, 

O  dearest  eyes, 

Bluer  than  blue  the  seraphs  know 

As  they  wheel  thru  the  upper  skies 

Where  the  godly  sun  rules  radiant -bright  — 

As  they  droop  thru  the  nether  skies 

Where  the  moon  weaves  silver  nets  all  night 

O  dearest  eyes, 

More  radiant  than  the  sun's  gold  face, 

More  subtle  than  the  moon's  strange  smile, 

More  deep  than  all  the  deeps  of  space  — 

O  dearest  eyes, 


10 


HIS  GRIEF  GIVES  THE  LOVER  NO  REST 

I  will  go  to  the  ends  of  the  world,  I  will  go  to  the  ends  of  the 
world  : 

Whether  rough  roads  be  under  or  a  wild  and  perilous  sea, 
Ne'er  shall  my  feet  be  restful,  never  my  sail  be  furled, 

But  I  will  wander  and  wander,  for  a  sick  heart's  heavy  in  me. 


A  sick  heart  is  beating  in  me,  there  is  nothing  to  give  it  surcease, 
Naught  in  the  place  of  pleasure,  nor  the  place  where  red  war 
is  hurled  : 

So  till  my  Love  relenteth  or  till  death  grant  me  release 
1  must  be  roaming  ever,  away  to  the  ends  of  the  world  ! 


THE  LOVER  THINKS  OF 

HIS  LADY  IN  THE  NORTH 

Now  many  are  the  stately  ships  that  northward  steam  away, 
And  grey  sails  northward  blow  black  hulls,  and  many  more  are 

they; 

And  myriads  of  viking  gulls  flap  to  the  northern  seas  : 
But  Oh  my  thoughts  that  go  to  you  are  more  than  all  of  these  ! 


The  winds  blow  to  the  northward  like  a  million  eager  wings, 
The  driven  sea  a  million  white-capped  waves  to  northward  flings  : 
I  send  you  thoughts  more  many  than  the  waves  that  fleck  the  sea, 
More  eager  than  tempestuous  winds,  O  Love  long  leagues  from 
me  ! 


0  Love  long  leagues  from  me,  I  would  I  trod  the  drenched  deck 
Of  some  ship  speeding  to  the  North  and  staunch  against  all  wreck, 

1  would  I  were  a  sea-gull  strong  of  wind  and  void  of  fear  : 
Unfaltering  and  fleet  I'd  fly  the  long  way  to  my  Dear  ! 


O  if  I  were  the  sea,  upon  your  northern  land  I'd  beat 
Until  my  waves  flowed  over  all  and  kissed  your  wandering  feet  ; 
And  if  I  were  the  winds  I'd  waft  you  perfumes  from  the  South, 
And  give  my  pleadings  to  your  ears,  my  kisses  to  your  mouth. 


H 


Tho  many  ships  are  sailing,  never  one  will  carry  me, 
I  may  not  hurry  northward  with  the  gulls,  the  winds,  the  sea  ; 
But  fervid  thoughts  they  say  can  flash  across  long  leagues  of  blue  — 
Ah,  so  my  love  and  longing  must  be  known,  Dear  Heart,  to  you  ! 


THE  SANDS 

The  wind  swirls  the  tangle  of  her  tresses  where  she  stands  ; 
She  stoops  and  gathers  in  rose-pale  hands 
A  myriad  grains  of  the  dry  white  sands. 


A  moment  she  holds  them  wonderingly  : 
Whence  and  how  have  they  come  to  be 
Part  of  the  strand  where  her  feet  go  free  ? 


She  sifts  them  slowly  thru  fingers  slim  : 

The  wind  whirls  them  seaward,  a  current  dim 

They  are  soon  forgotten,  as  any  whim. 


She  gathered  my  dreams  as  the  drifting  sands, 

Musing,  as  one  who  understands  : 

She  scattered  them  with  rose-white  hands. 


THE  BITTERNESS  OF  LOVE 

As  I  went  thru  the  rustling  grasses 

Over  the  long  low  dune, 
I  saw  on  the  sands  two  lovers, 

And  I  saw  the  waves  and  the  moon. 


And  I  heard  the  unaltering  murmur 
Of  the  sea,  and  a  wind  that  stirred  ; 

And  I  heard  the  lovers  breathing 
Many  a  soft  sweet  word. 


And  because  I  too  am  a  lover 

And  my  Love  is  far  from  me, 
I  hated  the  two  on  the  sands  there, 

And  the  moon  and  the  wind  and  the  sea. 


16 


THE  POET  TELLS  WHY  HE  SENDS  HIS 

LADY  SOME  CRUSHED  FLOWERS 

Because  while  I  went  lonely 

Where  violets  were  blue 
And  little  wood -anemones 

Were  white,  I  thought  of  you  ; 

And  while  I  lay  so  lightly 

Where  buds  were  in  the  grass, 
And  with  my  comrades  sang  a  song 

To  help  the  twilight  pass  — 

Altho  my  head  was  pillowed 

On  Aurietta's  arm, 
Her  little  hand  within  my  own 

And  over  me  her  charm  ; 

Altho  I  twined  pale  flowers 

Into  her  red -gold  hair, 
And  saw  her  eyes  above  me  bent, 

And  saw  that  they  were  fair  — 

My  heart,  O  my  Beloved  ! 

Was  silent  with  a  dream, 
And  thru  the  twilight  of  my  soul 

There  came  a  vibrant  gleam  : 


And  as  the  stars  flamed  whitely 
Down  deepening  seas  of  blue, 

My  being  broke  to  flame-like  love 
And  star-like  thoughts  of  you. 


20 


THE  POET  REMINDS  HIS  LADY 

THAT  HE  THINKS  OF  HER  ALWAYS 

As  I  went  up  the  highway, 

Warm  odors  wafted  free 
From  hidden  forest  flowers, 

Fragrant  flowers,  greeted  me  : 
And  I  dreamt  of  many  hours 

With  thee,  with  thee. 


Along  a  lonely  by-way 

Melody  came  afloat, 
Flung  by  a  woodland  warbler 

From  his  melodious  throat  — 
I  heard  thy  voice,  Beloved, 

In  ev'ry  luscious  note. 


The  path  that  I  call  "  My  Way  " 
Leads  far,  with  boughs  above, 

And  there  good  fortune  gives  me 
Sometimes  a  treasure -trove  : 

A  stray  white  rose  in  mem'ry 
Of  thee,  my  Rose-White  Love. 


21 


THE  LOVER  WISHES  HIS  LADY  WERE 

WITH  HIM  ON  AN  AUTUMN  DAY 

O  why  are  you  not  —  the  day  being  woven  of  gold  — 
Beside  me  now  going  under  the  Autumn  trees 

In  some  place  of" rustling  leaves  and  leaves  fragrantly  burning  ? 
You  should  know  then  the  folly  of  thinking  our  tale  is  told, 
Seeing  that  even  in  Autumn  there  is  no  death  on  the  trees, 
But  a  more  mellow  life  of  loving  and  longing  and  learning. 


I  have  known  how  in  your  veins  there  is  the  surge  of  unresting 

waters, 

Your  soul  being  blent  of  sea-spray  and  mist  and  green  deeps 
of  the  sea, 
And  I  am  broken  by  your  wildness,  as  a  boat  that  sinks  to 

green  caves  ; 

Yet  if  we  went  to-day  and  looked  on  the  peace-enamoured  waters, 
Even  as  deep  as  my  own  desire  would  be  your  desire  of  me, 
And  we  would  be  at  one  forever,  as  the  sea  is  at  one,  for 
all  its  unresting  waves. 


22 


THE  ROSE  IN   HER  GARDEN 


THE  POET  ACCEPTS  FRIENDSHIP  AFTER  LOVE 

Sweet,  to  be  wakened  again  by  a  prelude  of  morn, 
A  promise  of  day, 

After  intolerable  hours  of  a  night  forlorn, 

After  an  endless  night  of  hours  grief-torn, 

Sweet  to  be  wakened  even  to  skies  that  are  grey, 

Sad  skies  when  I  think  of  the  gold  that  was  yesterday  ! 


Had  it  been  better  to  suffer  the  night  forever, 
Sorrow  alway, 

So  I  had  seemed  from  the  day  of  our  love  not  to  sever  ? 

Nay,  even  friendship  is  sweet,  and  my  hope  dies  never  : 
I  will  rejoice  and  go  forth  in  the  dawn  that  is  grey, 
Who  knows  what  glory  may  burst  ere  the  close  of  the  day  ! 


THE   POET  THINKS  OF  HIS  LADY  AT   EVENING 

The  cool  sweet  winds  are  sweet  and  cool  as  the  breath  of  her, 
The  star-lit  skies  are  luminous  as  the  eyes  of  her, 
The  evening  thrills  with  the  thought  of  the  beauty  and  joy  of  her, 
And  something  within  my  heart  sings  low  of  the  love  of  her. 


O  whispering  winds  do  you  whisper  a  word  she  breathed  to  you  ? 
O  glowing  stars  do  you  mirror  the  glow  in  the  eyes  of  her  ? 
O  evening  thrill,  with  a  beautiful  thought  did  she  quicken  you  ? 
O  song  in  my  heart,  do  you  echo  the  song  in  the  heart  of  her  ? 


24 


THE  POET  CONSIDERS  A 

LITTLE  WILD  WHITE  ROSE 

Dear  little  pale  white 
Frail  white 
Bloom, 

Wan  ghost  of  color 
And  wraith  of  perfume, 
Little  pale  flower 
With  faint  perfume  — 

Why  are  you  dearer, 
Nearer 
To  me 

Than  lilies  and  laurels 
Ever  can  be  ? 
Than  clusters  of  clematis 
Wondrous  to  see  ? 


You  are  like  my  White 
Shy  White 
Rose; 

Exquisite,  delicate, 
Pale,  she  grows 
Lonely  and  lovely, 
Like  you,  little  rose. 


THE  LOVER  THINKS  OF  HIS  LADY  AT  DUSK 

White  moths,   fluttering  low  in  the  shadows,   like  shadows  of 


White  daisies,  swaying  slow  in  the  meadows,  like  faerie  hosts  ; 
Pale  masses  of  laurel,  like  souls  of  poets,  in  white  dreams  held  ; 
And  a  breeze  like  the  sigh  of  a  child,  or  an  old  man's  mem'ries 

of  eld; 

And  I,  like  a  moth,  like  a  shadow,  a  flower,  a  flutter  of  wind  — 
Pale,  and  asway,  and  silent,  for  the  love  in  my  heart  enshrined. 


26 


THE  LOVER  THINKS  OF  HIS  LADY  IN  A  GLEN 

I  loitered  in  a  little  glen  : 

A  bird  was  there,  and  nothing  else 
Except  the  waters  wandering  by  ; 
Whitely  they  fell  and  wandered  by  ; 
A  bird  flew  over  ;  nothing  else 
Save  I,  within  the  little  glen. 


I  called  upon  the  waters  then 

To  sing  your  name  ;  and  nothing  else 
Should  be  the  bird's  melodious  cry  : 
The  waters  fell  and  wandered  by, 
Droning  incessant,  nothing  else  ; 
A  bird -song  wavered  thru  the  glen. 


And  since  the  waters  would  not  cry 
Your  name  of  names  and  nothing  else, 
Nor  the  bird  sing  it  thru  the  glen, 
I  breathed  it  thru  the  little  glen  : 
Then  the  hushed  air  began  to  pulse, 
And  joyous  winds  to  wander  by. 


27 


THE  POET  CHERISHES  A  FLOWER 

PLUCKED  BY  HIS  LADY 

Yesterday,  Maying  it  deep  in  the  wood, 

When  silent  a  moment  and  musing  we  stood, 

I  asked  of  the  three  of  you,  beautiful  girls, 

Three  perishing  tokens,  with  petals  for  pearls. 

Then  Goldie  a  violet  gave  me  fair, 

And  Pippa  a  columbine  from  her  hair, 

And  you  with  your  pale  hands  pulled  for  me 

This  star -pale  tiny  anemone. 

Star-pale  ?      Stars  are  passionate,  too  ! 

And  these  white  petals  caressed  by  you, 

Frail  and  quiet,  serene,  austere, 

Like  the  skies  grow  infinite  as  I  peer, 

Deep  under  deep,  height  over  height, 

Pierced  by  a  star -pale  passionate  light. 

Oh  in  this  quivering  bloom  I  see 

Deeps  of  desire  and  destiny  ! 

Well  it  was  that  the  gift  you  gave 

Was  white  and  pallid  and  strange  and  grave, 

With  a  passion  greater  than  tints  could  show 

Or  any  who  loved  you  not  could  know  : 

So  it  seems  for  your  symbol  meet, 

Fair,  frail,  puzzling  and  passing  sweet. 


28 


Violet,  late  so  very  blue, 

Luring  the  eye  to  look  on  you, 

Lustreless  now  and  shrunk  and  dry 

Here  with  the  columbine  you  lie, 

All  of  its  gold  and  scarlet  dulled, 

For  the  sun  has  circled  since  both  were  pulled. 

And  you,  my  precious  anemone, 

Are  withered  worst  of  the  fragile  three, 

A  wee  brown  shrivelled  pathetic  thing, 

Yet  you  I  cherish  and  you  1  sing. 


29 


THE  PERIL  OF  ROSE-QUESTING 


THE  LOVER  TELLS  HIS  LADY  WHO  HAS 
GROWN  COLD  TO  HIM  WHY  LOVE  STILL  LIVES 

You  bring  me  scentless  flowers,  ashen  fruit, 

Pale  wine  that  cannot  quench  my  passionate  thirst, 
And  wreathes  like  hollow  shadows  in  my  hair  ; 
Yet  hath  the  tree  of  love  undying  root 

In  seed  of  blooms  you  brought  me  at  the  first, 
Nor  knew  how  wondrous  life  lay  folded  there. 


3° 


THE  LOVER  PRAISES  HIS  LADY'S   PRIDE 

I  sat  long  with  an  old  wise  man 
Whose  thought  had  tested  every  plan 
For  turning  life's  crude  ore  to  gold  ; 
And  I  was  silent  while  he  told 
How  in  the  furnaces  of  pride 
The  flames  afflict  us  and  deride 
But  never  give  the  wanted  gain  ; 
Only  with  patience  and  long  pain 
We  hammer  out  a  scant  largesse 
With  the  blunt  tool  of  humbleness. 
The  wisdom  of  many  a  hard-won  day 
And  many  a  sunset  passed  away 
Spoke  from  his  words  and  from  his  thought. 
And  yet  I  turned  from  him  and  sought 
Within  my  grief-stained  memory 
The  last  sad  vision  holding  thee. 
It  was  as  if  I  stood  before 
Maeve's  fierce  fair  daughter  Finavar, 
Whose  wild  mind  went  to  war -like  things 
And  scorned  a  hundred  suitor  kings. 
Greater  than  her  great  pride  was  thine, 
For,  having  loved  me  with  love  fine 
And  fervid,  thou  could'st  yet  refuse 
To  choose  me  when  I  bade  thee  choose 
Me  or  thy  virgin  right  to  be 
In  all  thy  maiden  friendships  free. 
Anger  had  cast  out  of  my  mind 

31 


My  joy  that  thou  art  of  the  kind 

Who  can  and  must  be  all  unbound. 

Surely  thine  own  words  left  a  wound 

Upon  the  lips  that  bade  me  go  : 

Yet  I  remember  thou  stood  so 

Thy  white  neck  seemed  an  ivory  tower 

Slenderly  strong  with  pride's  sad  power. 

0  that  white  strength  !  —  yet,  did  it  shake  ?  — 

1  thought  I  saw  its  firmness  break  — 
Only  the  grace  that  always  lies 
Within  them,  filled  thy  sorrowful  eyes, 
No  weakness  ;   and  thy  hair  somehow 
Seemed  a  rich  crown  upon  thy  brow. 
The  candles  guttered  and  went  pale 
And  I  stepped  close  ;    yet  did  not  fail 
Thy  sad  incomparable  high  pride, 
And  I  went  slowly  from  thy  side. 

He  seemed  so  pitiful,  that  old  man, 

Whose  life  had  tested  every  plan 

And  garnered  from  their  passionate  stress 

At  last  the  wisdom  of  humbleness. 

I  cried  «'  All  Time's  tempestuous  winds 

Assault  her  yet  not  one  unbinds 

A  gold  thread  of  her  queenly  crown, 

Nor  could  their  hosted  strength  bow  down 

That  ivory  tower  :   is  it  not  well 

To  love  so  wild  a  thing  ?      I  fell 

Before  her  like  a  broken  tide, 

Praising  her  lone  high  cruel  pride." 

32 


THE  LOVER  GUARDS  THE  FLAME  OF  HIS  LOVE 

It  is  dawn -time  : 

The  world  is  awakening  to  daily  toil  ; 

But  I  have  not  been  sleeping. 

I  have  been  wakeful,  tending  the  Sacred  Flame, 

My  Sacred  Flame. 

The  gusts  have  been  blowing  about  it, 

I  have  feared  that  it  had  gone  out, 

And  then  I  have  felt  chilled. 

I  have  been  a  poor  priest, 

My  thoughts  have  gone  away  to  other  things, 

And  my  desires,  Ah  shame  is  me  !   they  too 

Have  gone  to  other  things  ; 

But  some  breath  more  than  mine  has  ever  again 

Blown  thru  the  embers,  and  the  Flame  has  flared  : 

O  God,  I  thank  Thee  for  thy  fostering  breath  ! 


I  know,  I  know 

Again  and  yet  again  my  thoughts  will  go  away, 

And  my  desires  will  set  toward  other  things 

Than  this  — 

Oh,  one  cannot  forever  watch  a  little  flame  ! 

And  I  —  I  am  a  lover  of  each  lovely  sound 

That  vibrates  to  me,  and  I  love  each  form 

That  goes  before  my  sight  with  graceful  rhythm 

Sometimes  I  must  look  elsewhere,  Little  Flame  ! 


33 


But  ever  and  again  God  breathes  on  thee, 

And  I  am  minded  that  the  end  of  Time 

Will  be  but  the  beginning 

Of  thy  true  brightness  and  eternal  light, 

And  of  thy  warmth  which  then  will  comfort  me, 

Melting  all  memories  of  this  cold  world 

In  which  thou  wert  the  coldest  of  all  things. 

O  Little  Flame,  O  Little  Flame, 

O  Sacred  Fire, 

Sobbing,  I  ask  forgiveness  of  neglect, 

And  pray  thee  of  thy  goodness  to  remember 

Not  the  distractions  that  too  many  times 

Have  led  my  thoughts  away  ; 

But  rather  these 

Long  vigils  I  have  kept,  Oh  many  a  night, 

Long  sorrows  1  have  borne  Oh  many  a  day, 

And  the  great  surplus  of  my  love  for  thee, 

Whence  only  I  have  love  for  other  things. 

O  Little  Fire  doubt  not  ! 

O  Sacred  Flame  doubt  not  ! 

When  time  is  past  thou  wilt  consume  me  all, 

And  till  then  God  and  I  will  keep  a  vigil 

As  we  have  kept  to-night : 

Now  it  is  dawn  ; 

Grey  dawn  and  a  weary  world  that  stirs  and  wakes. 


34 


THE  LOVER  REMINDS  GOD  OF  THEIR  COMPACT 

Stript  to  the  naked  form  of  my  faith 

I  bow  before  Thee,  God  my  God  ; 
Empty  and  cold  is  my  heart, 

It  is  not  to  adore  Thee, 
And  my  lips  are  still  and  dumb, 

It  is  not  to  implore  Thee, 

God  my  God  ; 
Humble  nor  proud  I  am  not,  but  I  kneel 

Passive  before  Thee, 

God  my  God. 


Thine  is  the  power  and  Thou  can'st  do 

E'en  as  thou  wilt,  O  God  my  God  : 
Vain  were  my  shrewdest  skill 

If  I  tried  to  cheat  Thee, 
And  my  greatest  strength  were  vainly 

Strained  to  defeat  Thee, 

God  my  God  ; 
I  face  Thee  now  with  one  question  and  wait 

An  answer  from  Thee, 

God  my  God. 


35 


We  have  a  compact  made  of  old  days, 

Thou  and  I,  O  God  my  God  : 
One  thing  only  in  life 

I  demanded  of  Thee, 
And  for  that  boon  to  serve  Thee  well 

And  to  love  Thee, 

God  my  God, 
Gladly  I  swore  ;  and  I  come  but  claiming 

Fairplay  from  Thee, 

God  my  God. 


I  have  not  served  Thee  well,  and  why  ? 

How  hast  Thou  flayed  me,  God  my  God  ? 
Left  me  unguarded  from  Hell  till  I  think 

Thou  hast  betrayed  me, 
Giving  no  sign  of  the  end  of  the  trial 

While  Thou'st  assayed  me, 

God  my  God  ! 
I  can  endure  no  more  ;  therefor  fulfill 

The  promise  Thoust  made  me, 

God  my  God  ! 


Only  one  glory  in  life,  but  that 

I  will  not  forego,  God  my  God  : 
Give  me  the  woman  I  love,  for  it  standeth  so, 

Our  pact  ;  I  have  served  and  suffered 
And  waited, 

And  lo  ! 

God  my  God, 
I  will  serve  and  suffer,  but  wait  no  more  : 

It  it  Yes  or  No  ? 

God  my  God  ? 


37 


FOUND 


THE  LOVER  AND  HIS  LADY  ARE 

BOUND  BY  A  MILLION  BONDS 

We  are  too  manifoldly  bound  together 

Ever  to  wholly  part  ; 

Too  many  days  of  glad  or  gloomy  weather 
Like  birds  we've  braved  on  light  or  fearful  feather  ; 

We  must  not  part, 
Nor  break  that  bond  —  as  some  unwelcome  tether  — 

Which  binds  with  love  my  heart  to  your  proud  heart. 


THE  LOVER  REMEMBERS  THE  CANDLE 

HIS  LADY  LIT  FOR  HIM 

Before  the  picture  of  an  armored  knight 

She  placed  a  candle  with  a  little  light, 

A  tiny  candle  with  a  steady  flame 

That  put  a  glow  of  gold  about  the  name 

Galahad  :     "  It  is  your  candle  "  was  her  word, 

And  first  I  wondered,  then  my  youth  was  stirred 

To  a  resolve  as  fine  as  this  her  thought, 

To  be  her  knight  in  all  things,  and  in  naught 

Less  worthy  of  her  than  that  storied  knight, 

Puissant  and  pure,  above  my  candle's  light. 

How  long  before  I  learned  that  youth  is  frail 

When  in  the  lonely  questing  of  the  Grail 

Immediate  sweet  cups  are  offered  him  ? 

How  long  before  I  knew  that  dreams  can  dim, 

And  a  thin  tenuous  thread  of  faith  remain 

Truth's  only  guide  thru  ways  of  sin  and  pain  ? 

How  long  before  my  knightly  crest  sunk  low  ? 

Yet  for  the  whole  adventure  I  can  show 

At  last  the  only  guerdon  that  I  sought, 

My  Love's  own  love  ;  because  it  seemed  as  naught 

To  her  that  I  had  mingled  good  with  bad  ; 

It  is  myself  she  loves,  not  Galahad, 

And  when  disarmed  I  came  to  her  again 

She  kissed  me  :    there  is  no  more  sin  or  pain. 

39 


THE  LOVER  HEARS  NO  SONG 

BUT  THE  SONG  OF  HIS  LOVE 

Out  of  all  ages  that  have  been  and  passed 

Voices  are  crying  "  We  unremembered  souls 

Had  once  warm  bodies,  and  we  lived."      Then  some 

Chant  fiercely  of  old  battles,  and  the  joy 

Of  victory,  or  anguish  of  defeat  ; 

Some  sing  the  songs  they  sang  to  languid  lutes 

In  marble  cities  by  the  Aegean  ;  and  some  — 

O  troubling  voices  from  all  ages  past  !  — 

Sing  low  of  loves  that  triumphed  and  that  lost. 

But  all  the  voices  of  all  hours  that  were, 

The  mingled  chorus  of  the  hours  that  are, 

The  prophecies  of  hours  that  will  be, 

To  me  are  nothing  ;  for  I  only  hear 

One  strain  that  trembles  from  the  veins  of  my  heart, 

One  sweet  immortal  melody  that  first 

Thrilled  into  being  in  that  immortal  hour 

When  first  we  met,  by  God's  old  purpose  led  : 

One  haunting  strain  whose  music  makes  for  me 

All  life,  all  time  and  all  eternity 

But  one  Immortal  Hoiy,  one  Deathless  Day. 


40 


THE  LOVER  TELLS  HOW  LOVE 

MUST  ALWAYS  GROW 

O  more  than  ever  and  more  than  I  can  tell 
I  love  you,  and  my  love  grows  evermore  : 
As  the  waves  widen  to  the  waiting  shore 

From  the  small  wound  wherein  the  pebble  fell. 

Such  way  of  love  beyond  all  ways  is  well, 
Since  the  heart  does  not  burn  to  a  sad  core 
With  its  first  flaming,  but  forevermore 

Grows  more  intense  with  love  than  I  can  tell. 


Think,  O  Beloved,  to  what  nameless  glory 

This  love  must  grow,  which  flowered  first  so  fair, 
For  surely  wakened  never  anywhere 

Poppy  or  rose  like  it,  in  deed  or  story  ! 

It  will  outbloom  this  withering  clod  the  world, 

Rooted  in  God  and  never  to  be  furled. 


THE  LOVER  SCORNS  ALL  WOMEN  BUT  HIS  LADY 

Were  all  the  women  of  the  world  to  come 

And  droop  their  languorous  hair  about  my  heart, 
They  could  not  hold  it  in  those  nets  so  fine  ; 
And  pleading  with  lips  lyrical  or  dumb, 
And  howsoever  an  alluring  art, 

They  could  not  win  the  kisses  that  are  thine. 


If  Helen  came,  her  white  limbs  hung  with  gold, 
And  Deirdre  with  dim  visionary  eyes, 

And  Grania,  flame-haired,  fiery  with  command  ; 
If  Hero  came  —  reluctant  once  of  old  — 
And  she  who  all  too  long  with  Romeo  lies, 

And  she  who  led  Dante  heavenward  by  the  hand, 


They  could  not  make  me  fain  of  their  fain  lips 
Nor  lure  me  to  the  languor  of  warm  breasts 
With  any  soft  compulsion  of  white  arms  ; 
And  delicate  dim  touch  of  finger-tips 

And  fire  that  flames  from  eyes  and  fire  that  rests 
Would  leave  me  cold  and  lose  the  name  of  charms. 


42 


Nay,  Solomon's  Love  and  Anthony 's  Desire, 
Heloise,  and  frail  Francesca,  and  their  queen 

Immortal  Aphrodite,  whom  I  praise, 
And  all  her  passionate  daughters  veined  with  fire, 
Might  pass  like  old  bent  hags,  for  I  have  seen 
Beauty  within  thy  beauty  for  all  days. 


THE  POET  PRAISES  HIS  LADY'S  BRIGHT  BEAUTY 

Some  night  I  think  if  you  should  walk  with  me 
Where  the  tall  trees  like  ferns  on  the  ocean's  floor 

Sway  slowly  in  the  blue  deeps  of  the  moon's  flood, 
I  would  put  up  my  hands  thru  that  impalpable  sea 

And  tear  a  branch  of  stars  from  the  sky,  as  once  I  tore 
A  branch  of  apple-blossoms  for  you  in  an  April  wood. 


And  I  would  bend  the  dewy  branch  of  stars  about  your  little  head 

Till  they  flamed  with  pride  to  be  as  blossoms  amid  your  hair  ; 

But  I  would  laugh  to  see  them  so  pale,  being  near  your  eyes. 

I  would  say  to  you  "Love,  the  Immortal  Ones  are  hovering 

about  your  head, 

They  laugh  at  the  dimness  of  stars  in  the  luminous  night  of 
your  hair." 
I  would  toss  that  weeping  branch  back  to  the  mournful  skies. 


43 


THE  LOVER  TELLS  WHAT  HE 

SEES  IN  HIS  LADY'S  EYES 

All  that  is  old  and  unending 

Is  hid  in  the  deeps  of  your  eyes  ; 
All  that  is  joyous  and  hopeml, 

All  that  is  certain  and  wise  ; 
The  shadowy  raven  of  sorrow, 

And  peace,  with  the  wings  of  a  dove, 
And  ever  the  dim  swift  secret 

Ineffable  vision  of  love. 


The  sunrise  has  lent  them  a  glory, 

The  sunset  a  wistful  gleam, 
The  moon  has  given  its  wonder, 

The  dark  has  given  its  dream  ; 
And  the  waters  that  flow  in  the  hollows, 

And  the  vapors  that  waver  above, 
In  the  deeps  of  your  eyes  are  woven 

To  veil  the  white  vision  of  love. 


THE  LOVER  BIDS  HIS  LADY'S  EYES 

CEASE  HAUNTING  HIM 

Hide  from  me,  haunting  eyes, 

Turn  ye  away, 
Hide  from  me,  haunting  eyes  ! 

Ever  1  seek  you,  ah  but  do  not  stay, 
Hark  to  my  cries, 
Hide  from  me,  haunting  eyes  ! 


All  day  have  I  seen  your  flames,  O  stars  in  the  day, 

Turn  ye  away, 
Hark  to  my  cries  ! 

The  strength  of  the  hours  of  the  sun  I  have  ceased  to  prize3 
And  the  moon  no  more  I  love  in  the  dreaming  skies, 

But  only  alway 

It  is  you  I  seek,  it  is  you  I  see,  it  is  you  I  prize, 
O  haunting  eyes  ! 


You  are  waiting  there  by  my  couch  at  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  you  stay,  you  stay, 

Alway,  alway, 

Till  my  heart  takes  fire  from  your  fire  and  the  flames  arise, 
Seeking  and  vainly  seeking  the  mystic  skies 

Where  you  are  orbed  in  wonder,  where  you  stray 

Star-like,  but  ever,  ever  and  alway 


45 


Lure  me  and  call  and  draw  me  till  I  pray 
Mercy  and  Mercy,  cruel  commanding  eyes, 
Hark  to  my  cries, 
Grant  me  release  and  hide  from  me,  haunting  eyes  ! 


O  haunting  eyes, 
Too-well-loved  eyes, 

Do  you  not  see  that  I  wander  and  fall  and  stray, 

Losing  my  way 

In  the  intricate  maze  of  the  world  where  my  journey  lies, 
Do  you  not  see  how  the  flames  you  have  kindled  rise 

Thru  the  night  and  the  day 
Till  my  life  is  an  ardent  despair,  and  I  send  my  cries 

Quivering  to  you,  begging  you  turn  away, 
Leave  my  heart  ashes  O  desolate  leave  my  skies, 
Only  release  me,  only  hark  to  my  cries, 

Turn  ye  away, 

Turn  ye  away, 

Turn  ye  away  and  hide  from  me,  haunting  eyes, 
Haunting  eyes, 

Eyes  that  I  love  too  well  O  turn  ye  away, 
Hide  from  me,  haunting  eyes  ! 


46 


THE  LOVER  SERVES  HIS  LADY 

AT  VESPERS  ON  THE  HILLS 

Oh  solemn  and  beautiful  service  of  evening  time  ! 

The  world's  wide  silence,  the  tremulous  whispering  hush, 

Unvaporous  air  with  the  faintest  of  purple  aflush, 
And  the  golden  cloud-veil  rent  to  reveal  the  sublime 

Slow  death  of  the  Saviour  Sun,  who  has  poured  his  blood 

In  a  crimson  flood 
On  the  last  high  altar  of  hills  in  the  western  clime  ! 


I  thrill  with  devotion  ecstatic,  and  joyfully  drink 
The  sacrament  ancient,  ineffable,  feeling  the  breath 
Of  the  Spirit  of  Beauty  in  Sunset  and  Life  beyond  Death  ; 

The  chain  of  the  day  and  its  deeds,  link  loosening  link, 
Falls,  and  my  soul,  fulfilled  of  a  mystical  grace, 
Knows  the  embrace 

Of  the  Infinite  Soul,  who  leans  to  it  over  the  brink. 


And  the  flame  of  the  rites  of  the  ev'ning  hath  lit  in  my  heart 
A  fire  of  incense,  a  revernt  burning  of  thought, 
A  smoke  of  desire,  with  the  fragrance  of  passion  full -fraught, 

That  rises  to  thee,  O  my  Love,  to  thine  altar  apart, 

Thou  Host  in  the  Holy  of  Holies,  the  shrine  of  my  soul, 

Thou  divine  sweet  whole 

Of  my  faith  and  my  worship,  my  God,  O  Belov'd,  as  thou  art  ! 


47 


THE  ISLE  OF  DREAMS 

Lone,  in  a  sea  of  many  currents,  a  fair  island  : 

The  waters  rage,  and  the  winds  bear  sudden  terrors  ; 
Winds  and  waters  grow  calm  at  the  shores  of  the  island. 

Grey,  as  a  glen  ere  the  dawn,  mysterious,  grey  — 

Green  terrible  deeps  in  the  waters,  and  on  the  winds 
Red  flashes  —  but  over  the  island  all  things  are  grey. 

Immortal  sunset  saddens  evermore 

Under  the  drooping  sky  ;  but  like  a  song 
Unbreathed,  eternal  dawn  hovers  on  Heaven's  shore. 


Flowers  like  dear  remembered  words  are  there, 

And  winds  like  dearer,  deeper  silences  ; 
Old  glances  of  loved  eyes  are  the  blue  lakes  there. 

Only  upon  the  secret  island,  the  grey  Isle  of  Dreams, 

Are  beauty,  freedom,  peace  ;  there  only  divine  content : 
Life  and  Love  fold  their  wings  together  on  the  Isle  of  Dreams. 


For  you  are  always  with  me  there,  Belov'd  ; 
Dreaming  with  you  I  am  isled  in  ecstasy  : 
You  are  the  Princess  of  the  Isle  of  Dreams,  Belov'd  ! 


THE  POET  LAMENTS  ON  BURNING 

A  LETTER  OF  HIS  LADY 

I  have  only  a  little  unlovely  plate  of  tin, 

Sweetheart,  to  burn  your  precious  letter  in, 

Yet  as  before  some  curious  altar  of  great  price 

I  am  bowed,  reverent  before  this  sacrifice, 

Following  with  a  prayer  each  fragile  word  that  sighs  thru  the 

smoke, 
As  often  I  made  a  prayer  for  each  word  your  cruel  lips  spoke. 


I  would  I  had  an  altar  of  jade  green  as  a  shaded  pool  in  July, 
Carved,  by  some  man  long  dust  who  was  a  white  quiet  flame 

while  he  breathed, 

With  all  the  most  secret  symbols  of  the  desire  that  does  not  die  ; 
I  would  it  were  winged  with  two  candelabra  of  yellow  ivory 

copper-sheathed, 
Each  with  seven  arms  and  seven   waxen  candles  with  golden 

rose-leaves  en  wreathed  ; 

And  in  the  center  a  sunken  bowl  of  red  gold  ; 
There  I  would  put  the  little  thing  of  paper  that  is  so  dear  to  me, 
Holding  so  much  of  joy  and  sorrow  and  of  love  told  and  untold, 
And  I  would  strew  it  with  dried  rose-leaves  and  leaves  of  the 

apple-tree, 

And  light  it  with  a  slender  taper  tipped  with  fire  from  a  little  bowl 
Hollowed  of  a  white  moonstone  and  yellow  with  a  odorous  oil  : 


49 


And  when  the  smoke  arose  it  would  be  colored  with  the  color 

of  my  soul, 
And  heavy  with  hopes  and  despairs  as  the  smoke  of  some  king's 

rich  spoil. 


IN  TIME  OF  FAILURE  THE  LOVER  TAKES 
COMFORT  FROM  THE  THOUGHT  OF  HIS  LOVE 

Tho  trusted  fellows  proved  but  fools 

And  brothers  sworn  betrayed  by  doubt, 

And  failed  by  sloth,  and  brought  about 
The  ruin  sure  where  discord  rules  ; 

Tho  all  my  labor  was  in  vain, 

My  ev'ry  plan  a  bubble  blown, 

My  ev'ry  hope  a  phantom  flown, 
My  sole  reward  a  various  pain  ; 

And  tho  the  crown  I  thought  to  make 

For  you,  and  all  I  thought  to  win 

Of  precious  gems  to  set  therein 
With  loving  labor  for  your  sake, 

Must  now  be  numbered  with  the  grey 

Pale  phantoms  that  forevermore 

Await  upon  life's  farther  shore 
The  word  that  God  forgets  to  say  — 

What  matter,  Love  ?     I  seem  to  wake 

From  some  hot  frenzy  of  a  dream, 

And  all  I  did  therein  I  deem 
But  faulty  service  for  your  sake  ; 

5' 


And  here  in  calm  and  hush  of  night, 
With  all  the  quiet  stars  above, 
I  weave  a  robe  of  perfect  love 

From  cloth  of  dark  and  threads  of  light 


I  weave  a  robe  of  perfect  love 
From  all  the  beauty  of  the  night, 
And  you  will  wear  it  in  God's  sight, 

And  at  the  last  be  glad  thereof. 


THE  LOVER  TELLS  HIS  FAITH 

Sunlight  to  starlight  swings  the  world  around, 

Starlight  to  sunlight,  day  to  uncertain  day  ; 
Men  grown  a-weary  fall  and  are  the  ground  ; 

Still  the  world  wanders  and  passes  not  away. 

Surely  to-morrow  the  stars  will  be  in  tune, 

The  old-time  anger  of  the  sun  will  surely  cease, 

The  tale  of  all  sorrows  will  be  an  ancient  rune, 
All  days  will  be  ecstasy,  all  nights  ecstatic  peace  ! 

Because  there  are  lovers,  great  lovers  in  the  world, 
Strong  great  lovers  with  love  exceeding  strong  ; 

A  wondrous  web  is  weaving  of  their  hair  intercurled, 

A  wondrous  chorus  rising  from  the  rapture  of  their  song  — 

And  the  flame-winged  seraphs  are  tangled  in  that  web, 
Shaking  dust  of  glory  over  quickening  hearts, 

And  the  great  song  rises  in  floods  that  cannot  ebb, 

And  the  far  suns  and  planets  take  up  harmonious  parts. 

This  is  my  faith  :      O  my  Beloved,  come, 

Look  on  the  stars  with  me  and  they  will  grow  more  bright - 
Add  to  the  chorus  our  love's  melodious  sum, 

Hail  thru  the  darkness  the  perfect  day  and  night  ! 


53 


BERRIES  OF  WISDOM 


TO 
THE  POETRY  SOCIETY  OF  AMERICA 


54 


THE  POET  CONSIDERS  THE  SLOE-TREE 

Black  and  white,  as  the  sloe, 

Is  life  with  its  joy  and  woe  : 

White  blooms  in  the  wind  o'  the  world's  delight, 
But  the  tree  is  thorny  and  black  as  night. 


White  blossoms  must  fade  and  blow 
From  the  tree  of  life,  the  black  sloe  ; 
Blue  berries  of  wisdom  come,  but  Oh 
Who  cares  for  them  when  the  blossoms  go  ? 


THE  POET  CONSIDERS  MAN, 

THE  EARTH,  THE  SUN 

A  tiny  atom  on  a  whirling  mote 
Swinging  around  a  little  ball  of  fire 
That  flies  with  futile  speed  a  fleeting  course 
Across  a  corner  of  the  universe. 


MARTYR  TO  EVERYMAN 

I  dream  strange  dreams  for  you, 
I  have  long  thoughts  for  you, 
I  sing  all  songs  for  you, 
I  dare  great  deeds  for  you. 


And  I  am  crowned  with  thorns  by  you, 
Mine  eyes  are  closed  with  dust  by  you, 
I  am  repaid  for  loving  you. 


OUTWORN 

O  unassuageable  thirst,  O  wordless  hunger, 
And  all  that  is  the  grey  of  dying  hours, 

Dead  things,  that  wear  the  semblance  of  desires 
Long  since  betrayed  and  virginal  no  longer, 
Palpitant  with  the  futile  lust  of  powers 

That  once  lit  all  the  world  with  morning  fires  ! 


Not  as  of  old  your  tremulous  whispering  fingers, 
Autumnal  poplars  !   move  across  my  soul 

Soothing  it  like  white  hands  upon  the  brow. 
It  is  a  bitter  thing  that  memory  lingers, 
It  is  a  bitter  thing  that  seasons  roll, 

But,  Oh,  most  bitter  the  inexorable  Now  ! 


Not  as  of  old,  O  grey  of  dying  hours, 

O  green,  O  rose,  O  gold  that  die  to  grey, 
Not  as  of  old  are  you  the  ultimate  glory, 
The  perfect  bloom  of  light  ;  rather  sad  flowers 
Languishing  for  their  lady  torn  away 

From  her  fair  garden  in  some  tragic  story. 


Beneath  unpitying  clouds,  over  dull  waters, 
Defeated  flags,  irreparably  torn, 

Droop  from  the  sad  walls  of  the  hollow  West. 

57 


Weary  with  strife  are  the  sons  of  men,  and  the  daughters 
Weary  with  passionate  waiting,  and  outworn 
Is  all  the  impulsive  rapture  of  the  quest. 


Gold,  and  the  color  of  rose,  and  the  green  of  the  world 
Only  a  mask  to  hide  the  ashen  face 

Of  death,  the  master  of  Time's  pageantry  ! 
O  Beautiful  Ones,  a  pitiless  net  is  curled 
Under  the  rushes,  under  the  revel's  pace  : 
This  night  ends  all,  no  dawn  will  ever  be. 


Dawn  but  a  dream  !     And  waking  we  press  once  more 
Westward,  upon  the  solitary  path 

That  leads  thru  vistaed  sunset  into  night  : 
Hoping  for  peace,  we  meet  our  doom  of  war, 
Loving,  we  bow  before  some  demon's  wrath  ; 
Emptied  of  faith  at  last,  emptied  of  might, 


We  are  grey  phantoms  of  the  dying  hours, 

Doomed  things,  wearily  passing.      O  fair  face, 
Do  you  not  bear  one  memory  of  the  morn  ? 
What  is  the  light  upon  your  brow,  what  flowers 
Bloom  in  your  hand  ?     I  see  the  ineffable  grace 
Of  drooping  petals,  of  fading  days  forlorn. 


CONSCIENCE 

For  all  our  whipped  and  goaded  ecstasies, 
Our  passionate  forgettings,  we  remember — 
Amid  the  mirth  and  music  we  remember — 
How  One  is  waiting  with  an  ultimate  question 
Before  the  inviolable  gates  of  God. 


THE  POET  CONSIDERS  THOSE 

WHO  KNOW  NOT  THEIR  SOULS 

Ears  ye  have  and  hear  not, 

Eyes  ye  have  and  see  not : 
In  the  Kingdom  of  the  Lord 

Deaf  and  blind  will  be  not. 


Souls  ye  have  and  care  not, 
Souls  ye  have  and  know  not : 

To  the  great  soul  of  the  Lord 
Souls  unconscious  flow  not. 


59 


THE  POET  SEES  THAT 

TRUTH  AND  PASSION  ARE  ONE 

Time  passes  ;   all  things  temporal  pass  with  it, 
Naught  holds  :   our  joys  are  mayflies,  and  they  die 
After  a  little  flutter  of  wings  ;  our  hopes 
Fade  fast  as  Winter  twilights  ;   and  our  firm 
Fixed  purposes  are  lamps  that  flicker  and  fail. 

Why  do  we  keep  the  helm  of  this  barque 
That  can  but  toss  on  cruel  seas  of  change  ? 

Always  above  the  unquiet  clouds  we  see 

One  star  that  is  more  than  fixed,  being  everlasting, 

One  fire  that  hides  no  treacherous  thing  at  heart, 

And  will  not  sink  to  ash  or  grimy  wick 

When  tired  God  blows  out  the  lights  of  time  : 

Somehow  we  cannot  falter  nor  turn  back 

Nor  seek  the  senseless  calm  beneath  the  waves 

While  fire  calls  to  fire,  and  we  feel 

That  these  blown  flames  our  hearts  are  wandering  sparks 

Of  that  eternal  star,  although  its  name 

Is  Truth,  and  Passion  is  our  word  for  these. 


60 


THEY  WENT  FORTH  TO  BATTLE 

BUT  THEY  ALWAYS  FELL 

They  went  forth  to  battle  but  they  always  fell  ; 

Their  eyes  were  fixed  above  the  sullen  shields  ; 
Nobly  they  fought  and  bravely,  but  not  well, 
And  sank  heart-wounded  by  a  subtle  spell. 

They  knew  not  fear  that  to  the  foeman  yields, 
They  were  not  weak,  as  one  who  vainly  wields 
A  futile  weapon  ;  yet  the  sad  scrolls  tell 
How  on  the  hard -fought  field  they  always  fell. 

It  was  a  secret  music  that  they  heard, 

A  sad  sweet  plea  for  pity  and  for  peace  ; 
And  that  which  pierced  the  heart  was  but  a  word, 
Tho  the  white  breast  was  red-lipped  where  the  sword 
Pressed  a  fierce  cruel  kiss,  to  put  surcease 
On  its  hot  thirst,  but  drank  a  hot  increase. 
Ah,  they  by  some  strange  troubling  doubt  were  stirred, 
And  died  for  hearing  what  no  foeman  heard. 

They  went  forth  to  battle  but  they  always  fell  : 

Their  might  was  not  the  might  of  lifted  spears  ; 
Over  the  battle-clamor  came  a  spell 
Of  troubling  music,  and  they  fought  not  well. 

Their  wreaths  are  willows  and  their  tribute,  tears  ; 
Their  names  are  old  sad  stories  in  men's  ears  ; 
Yet  they  will  scatter  the  red  hordes  of  Hell, 
Who  went  to  battle  forth  and  always  fell. 


61 


THE  PASSIONATE 

"  The  heart  that  is  passionate  must  be  sad," 
The  leaves  said  and  the  wind  said  ; 
And  the  leaves  fell  dying  about  my  head  : 
They  had  fled  from  life  for  the  love  of  the  wind, 
But  the  love  that  is  passionate  must  be  sad. 

"  The  end  of  passionate  love  is  death" 
The  cliff"  sighed  and  the  sea  cried  ; 
And  the  passionate  sea  hath  broken  and  died 

Desiring  the  breast  of  the  tall  cold  cliff": 

And  the  end  of  passionate  love  is  death. 

But  the  passionate  soul  hath  lasting  life, 

The  skies  know  and  the  stars  know  ; 
The  stars  with  immortal  passion  glow, 

And  the  skies  are  quick  with  God's  passionate  breath, 

And  the  passionate  soul  hath  lasting  life. 


62 


THE  TEMPTOR  FEAR 

He  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the  pit, 

And  said    "If  you  could  guess  the  peril  of  it, 

How  many  hells  within  its  darkness  hide, 

And  what  implacable  hands  on  every  side 

Reach  up  to  clutch  you  some  day  unawares — 

Ah,  could  you  know  !  "  — But  I  as  one  who  dares 

Impossible  things  in  some  delirium, 

Threw  back  my  head  and  cried  "  Why  let  them  come, 

At  least  they  will  find  me  laughing  with  the  sun  !  " 

— I  turned,  and  lo  he  fled,  that  evil  one  ! 


THE  POET  CONSIDERS  OUR  LITTLE  DAYS 

The  slow  days  drop  one  by  one  into  the  Pool  of  Time, 

They  are  tears  of  our  souls,  the  slow  days  that  are  lost  in  the 

Pool  of  Time, 
And  the  little  ripples  of  hope  and  joy  arise  and  flow  and   are 

gone 
And  quiet  comes,  and  peace  comes  and  broods  on  the  Pool  of 

Time. 


63 


THE  CHILDREN'S  WISDOM 

The  world  is  very  old  and  the  world  is  very  wise, 
And  the  world  looks  on  children  with  disdainful  eyes  ; 
But  I  know  of  the  coming  of  a  great  surprise  : 

For  when  the  world  is  older  by  many  many  years, 
And  Gabriel  the  Terrible  with  trumpeting  appears, 
It  will  learn  the  children's  wisdom  in  a  day  of  bitter  tears. 


THE  LESSON  SIMPLE  y 

If  the  thoughts  of  your  mind  are  gentle 

And  the  words  of  your  tongue  are  sweet, 
If  the  deeds  of  your  hands  are  kindly 

And  the  look  of  your  person  neat — 
Why,  men  and  women  will  love  you 

And  an  angel  will  guide  your  feet, 
And  life  will  be  full  of  beauty, 

And  God  will  smile  from  His  seat. 


ILL-WOVEN  GARLANDS 


TO 
THE  EDITORS  WHO  HAVE  ACCEPTED  ME 


OF  A  DAY'S  BLOSSOMS 


NORTHWARD 

Northward  ! 

God  gave  us  the  whole  world  to  be  our  own  ! 

This  is  the  anvil  whereupon  our  skill, 

Our  strength  and  our  indomitable  will 

Must  hammer  out  a  destiny  unknown  — 

Unknown  but  surely  great  !  —  and  we  must  fill 

With  the  soul's  forges  every  sullen  zone, 

Even  that  one  where  Death  sits  clothed  in  cold  upon  an  icy  throne. 

Forward  ! 

God  gave  our  souls  one  law, 

One  only  :      Ye  shall  grow  ! 

Burdened  and  broken  the  sad  centuries  go, 

Scarred  with  our  cruel  failures  —  yet  one  saw 

The  Deluge  cheated  of  the  just  man  Noah  ; 

And  one  was  glad  to  see  The  Chosen  stand 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  Promised  Land  ; 

One  saw  an  Emperor  conquered  by  the  Cross  ! 

And  where  the  waters  flow 

Between  the  yearning  continents,  and  toss 

Their  futile  waves,  one  century  knew  how 

Brave  Brendan  marked  a  pathway  with  his  prow  ; 

And  even  so 


66 


Columbus  led  the  eager  race  anew. 

One  saw  the  few 

Determined  pioneers  of  all  the  race 

Reject  an  Empire's  dominance,  and  trace 

For  Freedom's  feet  a  broad  unbounded  way. 

And  that  great  cycle  which  was  yesterday, 

More  marvels  than  its  banded  forebears  knew  — 

Clouds  and  the  lightning  doing  Man's  decree, 

And  Nature's  riddles  read  that  all  may  see. 

Yet  more  to  do 

Remains,  than  all  that  has  been  done,  and  we, 

We  are  the  doers,  the  appointed  doers  we  ! 

Northward  ! 

The  fearless  Vikings  shrunk  aghast 

From  the  unvaried,  vast 

And  terrible  portals  closing  toward  the  Pole. 

Yet  by  our  modern  breed  grim  Cold's  control 

Is  broken  more  and  more,  until  at  last 

One  Man 

Dashes  triumphantly  unto  the  goal  ! 

Northward  ! 

Toward  the  Eternal  Midas,  whose  sad  hand 
Turns  not  to  gold,  but  ice,  what  touches  it  ! 
The  treacherous  floor  that  is  not  sea  nor  land, 
Beneath  his  feet  doth  creak  and  gape  and  split  ; 
Wierd  luminous  darkness  wavers  warnings 

6? 


Thru  the  long  night  unlit  by  mornings  ; 

Deadly  distillments  of  the  letheal  cold 

Subtly  into  his  veins  creep  unawares, 

But  he  is  bold 

With  courage  of  great  purpose,  and  he  dares 

Press  northward  still,  still  northward,  northward  fares  !  — 

Till  in  a  moment  tremulous  with  awe, 

Silent  amidst  white  silence,  he  doth  stand 

A  victor,  at  the  Pole  ! 

And  in  his  soul 

He  feels  God's  benediction,  he  who  vindicates  the  Law. 

Onward, 
Forever  onward  ! 

What  tho  the  earth  be  bounded  by  the  Poles, 
Our  still  insatiate  souls 

Thirst  for  the  wine  of  all  the  worlds,  and  thirst 
For  God's  own  mystic  wine  ;  and  all  the  goals 
With  glory  won,  we  make  the  sunrise  wharves 
Whence  to  new  voyage,  with  aspiring  sail, 
Freighted  with  potencies,  we  start,  as  first 
The  savage  from  his  murky  vale 
Started  the  heights  to  scale. 
Our  spirits  grow  to  giants  or  to  dwarves. 
God  gave  our  souls  one  law, 
One  only  :      Ye  shall  grow 
And  ever  onward  go  ! 

And  he  who  hears  and  does,  he  shall  know  glory,  he  shall  be 
crowned  with  awe  ! 

68 


ANNUS  MIRABILIS— 1909,  RETROSPECT 

God  has  put  down  his  two  hands 

In  this  our  day,  and  wrought  thru  us 
A  myriad  works  miraculous 

On  all  the  seas,  in  all  the  lands. 


As  once  a  man  whose  name  was  John 

Came  crying  "  Make  ye  straight  the  way 
The  Lord  will  travel  in  our  day, 

Prepare  the  paths  he  comes  upon  !  "  — 

So  those  who  by  the  modern  plan 
Startle  us  with  tremendous  deeds, 
They  too  announce  a  Lord  who  speeds, 

The  coming  Lord  whose  name  is  Man. 

The  hills  are  being  levelled  low, 
The  vallies  filled  before  his  feet ; 
To  make  his  royal  highway  meet 

We  clear  the  jungle,  blow  by  blow. 

Because  we  dread  his  god-like  wrath, 
And  yearn  that  love  shall  fill  his  eyes, 
We  still  our  hateful  battle-cries 

And  seek  the  victories  Peace  hath. 


Along  the  selfish  old  frontiers 

We  ground  our  arms  and  clasp  our  hands  ; 

We  learn  to  bind,  not  cleave  the  lands  ; 
We  trust  our  faiths  and  still  our  fears. 


We  revel  in  our  growing  strength  ! 
We  master  the  applauding  sea  — 
Four  days  to  cross  it  —  soon  in  three  ! 

And  safe  on  all  its  circled  length  ! 


For  if  in  some  recurrent  rage 

A  proud  ship  breaks  beneath  its  lash, 
Electric  words  with  instant  flash 

Bring  help  from  every  vicinage. 


We  dive  beneath  deceitful  waves 
To  sail  deep  green  unvaried  calms, 
Among  long-fronded  water -palms, 

Among  old  frigates'  peaceful  graves. 


And  North  and  South  were  deathly  cold 
Spreads  sea  and  land  with  glistening  ice, 
By  strength  and  courage  and  device 

We  push,  till  all  their  tale  is  told. 


70 


Insatiate,  from  land  and  sea 

We  turn  aspiring  to  the  air  : 

We  spread  swift  wings  of  conquest  there, 
And  sail  long  leagues  majestic'ly. 


About  the  convex  vasty  globe 
We  trace  a  path  in  forty  days  ; 
O'er  dizzy  chasms  fling  our  ways, 

And  rush  thru  many  a  rocky  tube. 


The  waters  of  a  mighty  stream 
We  lead  beneath  a  granite  mount, 
And  in  the  desert  like  a  fount 

They  wake  life  from  its  arid  dream. 


Across  five-hundred  miles  we  talk 
Without  the  aid  of  tingling  wires  ; 
In  hearts  thought  cold  we  wake  the  fires 

The  seeming-dead  arise  and  walk. 


Thus  science  with  her  certain  wand 
Opens  new  gates  on  every  part, 
While  pregnant  with  great  seed  is  Art  ; 

And  Love  is  binding  in  her  bond 


The  long -divided  family 

Grown  weary  of  unnatural  hate  ; 

And  Justice  with  the  step  of  Fate 
Will  enter  where  Love's  councils  be. 


The  new  Messiah's  day  is  near  : 
His  name  is  Man,  the  Son  of  God  ; 
His  gleaming  feet  are  all  unshod  — 

Oh  make  the  level  pathway  clear  ! 


This  is  the  word  the  wise  ones  hear 
Thru  all  the  clatter  of  machines, 
In  all  the  complex  human  scenes  — 

The  new  Messiah's  day  is  near  ! 


THE  POETS  WITH  THE  SOUNDING  GONG 

Tho  oft  they  come  they  last  not  long, 

The  poets  with  the  sounding  gong, 

The  hanging  hair,  the  hungry  looks, 

The  frantic  schemes  to  boom  their  books  — 

To  keep  within  the  public  gaze 

While  worthier  men  go  quiet  ways. 


Ah,  let  them  rant  and  pose  awhile 
And  earn  their  meed,  a  weary  smile  ! 


In  truthful  numbers  flow,  my  song, 

About  the  poets  with  the  gong  ! 

Fame  whispers  when  of  them  she  speaks, 

And  bows  to  hide  her  reddening  cheeks. 

For  each  conceived  a  great  desire 

To  write  in  words  of  living  fire, 

But  finding  that  above  his  head, 

He  took  to  crimson  paint  instead. 

Ah  careless  of  all  proper  pride, 

They  blazon  forth  what  just  men  hide, 

And,  so  they  spread  their  lurid  fames 

Stop  not  at  smirching  honored  names  ; 

Nay,  even  foul  the  craft  they  own, 

Till  men  confuse  the  bard  and  clown. 

What  shall  forgive  these  grievous  wrongs, 

O  poets  with  the  clanging  gongs  ? 


To  think  that  songs  like  these  are  heard 
While  bards  who  temper  every  word 
To  prove  it  pure  and  fair  and  just, 
Unnoted  live,  as  live  they  must  ! 
O  cease  for  shame  your  raucous  songs, 
Ye  poets  with  the  sounding  gongs  ! 


73 


"AND  WE  SHALL  DANCE" 

TO    ISADORA    DUNCAN 

We  tire  of  our  intolerable  lords, 

Our  mastering  machines,  and  we  are  weary 

Of  mirthless  revels,  feigned,  unnatural  fetes  ; 
Some  sudden  touch  of  elemental  chords 

Eager  we  wait,  and  waiting,  nothing  fear  we 
But  they  will  sound,  and  open  long-closed  gates. 


O  weave  a  garland  for  these  tired  hours 
Of  the  old  fragrant  half-forgotten  flowers, 

Weave  it,  undying  spirits  of  the  old  delightful  times  ! 
See,  here  is  one  to  bear  it, 
One  who  is  fair  to  wear  it, 

One  whose  light  steps  are  lyric,  whose  white  feet  are  shod 
with  rimes  ! 


We  feel  fresh  waves  of  music  in  our  day, 

Waters  and  winds  grow  blithe  again,  and  soon 

Youth  will  return  to  us,  the  strong  and  sweet  ; 
More  buoyantly  we  tread  the  arduous  way, 

And  we  shall  dance  beneath  some  imminent  moon, 
Led  by  the  laughter  of  intrepid  feet. 


74 


CALVARY A.   D.    19- 

We  do  not  see  our  Lord  who  bleeds 

Upon  the  cruel  Tree  ; 
We're  very  busy  here,  and  very 

Far  from  Calvary. 

We  do  not  hear  our  Lord  who  cries 

With  such  a  piteous  cry, 
We  offer  neither  gall  nor  wine  — 

We  hurry  by. 

We  do  not  mourn  our  Lord  who  dies 

With  bitter,  bitter  pain, 
For  weeping  wastes  the  time  that  might 

Mean  gain  ; 

And  we  cannot  afford  to  pour 
Rich  ointments  in  a  wound, 

Nor  wrap  with  length  of  linen  soft 
His  naked  body  'round  ; 


We  cannot  stop  to  mourn  our  Lord 
Who  died  upon  the  Cross  ; 

Time  spent  in  grief  or  service  free 
Means  loss. 


75 


OF  CITY  FLOWERS 

ON  READING  CERTAIN  POEMS 

IN  PRAISE  OF  NEW  YORK 

My  city  !      How  the  younger  poets  mock 

With  present  praise  thine  unrevealed  soul  ! 

Surely  with  scorn  thou  hear'st  their  raptures  rol!3 
Nor  will  to  their  small  minds  thy  mind  unlock. 
Not  with  such  clamoring  casuists  can  I  flock  ; 

Black  witch  who  ere  my  birth  my  future  stole, 

With  fury  that  I  care  not  to  control 
I  hate  thee  and  the  children  of  thy  stock  ! 


I  hate  thee  and  I  cry  it  to  the  world  ! 
And  in  return  thine  uncouth  savage  love, 

O  lewd  amorphous  Mystery,  I  feel  ! 
For  when  at  last  thy  loftiest  towers  are  hurled 
Hell -ward,  of  all  who  mourn  thy  ruins  above, 
My  grief  alone,  thou  knowest,  will  be  real. 


A  BROADWAY  RESTAURANT— EARLY  MORNING 

Delicate  ferns 

In  sculptured  vases, 
And  in  the  corners 

Palms  a -sway  ; 
Sweet,  incessant 

And  soft  and  silver 
The  fountain  sings 

While  the  viols 

Play  — 
(Oh  the  days 

And  the  nights  departed 
Suddenly  called 

To  life  again, 
Oh  the  melodious 

Melancholy 
Memory -laden 

Magic  strain  !  ) 


Chosen  flower 

Of  fortunate  garden 
Every  exquisite 

Woman  seems  — 
(Ah  but  the  joy 

Of  meadow-blossoms 
A  rose  might  envy 

77 


In  hopeless 

Dreams  ?  ) 
Gleam  of  gems 

And  the  subtle  shimmer 
Of  silk  and  satin 

(But  ah  they  lie 
Heavy  !  )      And  hear 

How  light  the  laughter  ! 
How  gay  is  woman  ! 

(Search  not  her  eye  !  ) 


Graceful  silver 

Under  the  candles, 
Suave  ceramics, 

Radiant  glass, 
Piquant  food 

And  the  bubbling  vintage  — 
(Ah,  starved  souls 

While  the  dry  days 

Pass  !  ) 
Perfect  surely 

The  art  that  conjures 
Crimson  life  out  of 

More  than  death  : 
Yet  like  a  dream 

Behold  it  vanish, 
Hushed  and  pallid 

At  dawn's  grey  breath  ! 

78 


THE  TENTS  OF  BOHEMIA 

We  who  are  weary 
We  who  are  lost 

Gather  at  night, 
And  we  are  as  boats 

On  a  black  wave  tost 
And  have  no  light. 

O  pitying  moon 

We  have  shut  you  out 

With  a  tent  of  words, 
But  I  would  we  were 
As  a  ghostly  rout 

Or  as  shadowy  herds  ! 

We  have  turned  from  the  stars 
And  the  wandering  clouds 
And  the  color  of  night, 
And  we  chatter  and  drink 

In  the  dark  that  shrouds 
The  wandering  light. 

Oh  the  open  fields, 

Where  the  color  of  night 
Moves  over  dark  trees, 
And  the  flood  of  the  moon 
To  the  eyes  gives  sight, 
To  the  soul  gives  peace  ! 
79 


TO  ONE  SEEN  IN  BOHEMIA 

Brown  cap  and  red-brown  hair  and  pale  small  face, 

Had  my  Love  been  with  me  to-night  I  had  said 

"  Here  is  one  made  for  dreams  come  into  this  place  ; 

Long  ago  surely  a  prince  would  have  crowned  that  head 

And  called  upon  lords  and  people  to  bow  to  her  delicate  grace, 

Who  had  not  power  nor  pride,  but  beauty  and  love  instead  ; 

Nay,  but  a  prince,  had  he  met  her  under  the  trees 

When  he  followed  the  red  buck  over  the  brown  dry  leaves, 

With  the  cry  of  the  hounds  in  his  ears,  would  have  forgotten  these, 

And  his  stately  queen,  and  honor,  and  all  that  grieves, 

For  a  sweet  free  secret  hour  close  to  her  red-brown  hair." 

And  my  Love  would  have  answered  "  Aye,  she  is  fair, 

Somehow  like  red-brown  fluttering  frail  small  leaves. 

Do  you  not  see  how  the  hollow  laughter,  the  music,  the  glare, 

And  wine  and  words  are  warring  upon  her  there  ? ' ' 


80 


IN  A  CAFE 

For  all  the  glare  of  the  lights 

That  seem  to  leave  nothing  hidden, 

The  ancient  luminous  shadows 

Come  here,  even  here,  unbidden. 


The  music  is  overloud, 

And  the  laughter  is  like  to  cries, 
But  the  old  significant  silences 

Sometimes  conquer  and  rise. 


I  sense  in  these  futile  revels 

The  desire  of  the  race, 
And  an  unattainable  beauty 

On  each  weary  or  wanton  face. 


Here  where  all  folly  is  loud, 
And  is  spread  for  all  to  see, 

I  am  ever  surely  aware 
Of  wisdom  and  mystery. 


81 


ON  THE  CITY'S  RAGGED  EDGE 

Where  the  poorer  people  live 

On  the  city's  ragged  edge, 
Muddy  street  strays  into  meadow, 

Hateful  wall  gives  way  to  hedge  ; 
Toward  the  poorer  part  of  town 
The  unshorn  hearty  hill  slopes  down, 

Strewing  paths  of  dandelions 
Just  to  lure  you  to  its  crown. 


And  the  birds  with  all  their  songs 
Are  like  neighbors  over  there, 

And  a  field  of  dancing  daisies 
More  than  any  park  is  fair  ; 

And  beyond  the  streetways'  bound 

Rise  the  rough  old  hills  around, 
And  thru  many  a  pit  and  pathway 

You  can  see  the  good  red  ground. 


82 


OF  SEA  FLOWERS 

MARINERS'   HYMN  TO  POSEIDON 

(From  the  Palatine  Anthology) 

Poseidon,  watching  from  an  isle 
Over  the  waters  all  the  while, 
We  poor  mariners  in  our  boat, 
Toss  upon  thy  tides  afloat 
This  little  loaf  of  barley  bread  ; 
This  little  cup  of  wine  we  shed 
Over  thy  waves  that  leap  to  drink  ; 
And  see,  our  tiny  lamp  doth  wink 
With  little  pleading  prayers  to  thee, 
Who  only  can  make  safe  the  sea  ! 
Father  of  waves,  bid  fair  winds  come, 
Waft  us  to  well-loved  Actium  ! 


SEA-GULLS 

White  birds  of  the  ocean,  O  beautiful  birds  of  the  sea, 

Such  joy  of  wild  living  can  never  be  known  by  me, 

Such  fierceness  of  freedom  as  yours  I  may  sigh  for  in  vain  ! 

O  white  wild  birds  of  the  ocean, 

Such  wild  swift  motion 
Would  scatter  my  pain  ! 


Well  —  there  is  a  pleasure  in  watching  you,  birds  of  the  sea  : 
Swiftly  you  circle,  you  dart  —  O  closer  to  me, 
Fly  close,  living  forms  of  the  Beauty  Unending,  and  be 
White  gleams  in  the  dark  of  my  sorrows,  O  joyous  and  free  ! 


ON  A  CLIFF  OF  THE  WEST/ 

If  there  be  and  if  there  be 

Any  mercy  in  the  sea, 

O  waves  that  sing  so  soft  a  song, 
Keep  him  far  not  overlong, 

But  send  my  man  to  me  ! 


Home  to  me, 

Send  him  home, 
Fill  the  sails, 

Western  wind  ! 
Too  cruel  is  the  sea, 

Dead  men's  ashes  are  its  foam, 
And  it  breaks  the  ships  with  flails  ; 

But  the  western  breeze  is  kind, 
Oh  the  breeze  that  blows  so  soft 

Must  be  kind  ! 


—  Sea  and  wind 

Are  alike  in  cruelty. 

They  keep  him  overlong, 
And  the  ship  is  not  so  strong 

As  they  be  ! 


Well  I  know  that  when  the  wave 
Closed  above  him  as  a  grave, 
He  was  dauntless,  he  was  brave, 

But  he  called,  he  called  to  me, 
And  the  latest  cry  he  gave 

Was  for  me  ! 

When  his  ears  were  stopped  from  wind, 
And  his  eyes  with  salt  were  blind, 
And  the  waters  hushed  his  lips, 

From  his  heart  he  called  to  me  ! 


0  I  hear  you  and  I  come, 
Lips  so  silent,  lips  so  dumb, 

Heart  so  strangely  still  and  cold  ! 
For  your  cry  is  on  the  wind, 
And  my  tears  have  made  me  blind, 

And  tho  sea  for  grave  is  cold 
I  will  seek  you,  I  will  find, 

1  have  heard  you,  O  my  lover, 
And  I  come  ! 


86 


BUT  THE  TIDES  FLOW  FAST  — 

Ever  and  ever  and  ever  again 

To  the  shore  of  the  wide  unanswering  main 

She  goes  and  stands, 

With  her  old  thin  hands 
Shading  her  eyes  where  hope  is  pain  ; 

"  And  when  will  he  come,  will  he  come  ?  "  she  cries, 
*  *  When  will  he  come  again  ?  ' ' 

And  the  sea  replies  but  with  sighs  for  sighs, 
And  sighs  for  a  hope  that  is  vain. 


And  is  there  any,  and  who  is  he, 
Comes  not  to  a  cold  unanswering  sea 

With  a  hunger -pain 

And  a  question  vain, 
(Ah  terrible  tyrranous  hopes  have  we  !  ) 

And  "  Oh  for  the  things  that  have  been  and  passed, 
And  will  they  return  to  me  ? ' ' 

But  the  tides  flow  fast,  and  the  things  that  have  passed 
Return  not  over  the  sea. 


OF  WILLOW  AND  IMMORTELS 


MACDOWELL:     AN  ELEGY 

The  Master  lieth  low,  he  is  taken  : 

Let  us  bow. 

But  let  us  not  despair,  tho  the  heart  be  shaken  : 

When  is  the  time  for  faith,  if  it  be  not  now  ? 

His  dreams  were  troubled  here  ;    there  is  rest  where  he   will 

awaken, 

Peace  at  last  will  be  white  around  his  brow, 
And  there  will  be  Reward  :   it  is  for  that  he  is  taken. 
Let  us  bow, 

Then  let  us  lift  our  hearts,  that  a  deep-sprung  joyous  strain 
May  dominate  these  minors  of  deep  pain. 

How  should  we  wrong  him  if  our  faith  were  weak  ! 
He  was  no  doubting  soul,  who  first 
Dared  in  our  rougher  forest-wilds  to  seek 
The  gods  who  give  men  music  ; 
Who  bade  the  winds  of  lake  and  prairie  burst 
To  harmonies  that  hushed  and  held  the  world  ! 
How  should  we  shame  him  if  we  feared  ! 
He  was  no  timid  soul, 

Who  found  his  music  where  the  sea-storms  whirled, 
And  the  white  towering  bergs  came  cruising,  mist-enfurled  ! 
How  should  we  wrong  him  by  despair  ! 
Him,  who  found  all  things  so  fair, 

88 


Who  understood  Eternal  Joy, 
And  sang  of  it  in  songs  so  rare  : 
Let  us  not  wrong  him  by  despair  ! 

But  our  hearts  are  wrung  : 

Grief  will  not  be  still, 

Sorrow  must  find  a  tongue. 

Grief  and  Sorrow  !   ah  these 

Also  the  Master  knew. 

Listen  —  those  melodies 

Do  they  not  seem  to  fill  ? 

Cries  from  a  soul  that  was  wrung  ! 

Play  then  his  melodies, 

And  his  subtle  harmonies, 

And  his  rare,  sad  songs  let  us  sing  as  we  oft  have  sung  ; 

Thus  shall  our  grief  have  tongue. 

Enough  !      The  Tragic  note  is  heard  by  all  — 

The  universal  music  of  mankind. 

He  rose  above  it  to  an  Heroic  call, 

Triumphing  with  great  heart  and  soul  and  mind. 

He  listened  to  the  Immemorial  Wind 

That  bloweth  ever  from  the  far  Dawn-Days 

Old  epic  fragments  and  old  bardic  lays  : 

He  learned  their  secret  and  their  prophecy  — 

Listen  :  —  Eternal  Beauty  !  —  Immortality  ! 

The  Master  lieth  low  :   he  is  taken  : 
Let  us  bow. 

89 


But  let  us  rejoice,  tho  our  hearts  be  shaken  ! 

Peace  and  Reward  will  be  white  upon  his  brow, 

Joy  will  be  his,  where  he  will  awaken. 

Strong  is  our  faith,  and  our  hearts  are  lifted  now  ; 

Grief  is  a  minor  in  the  harmony  ; 

Joy  is  triumphant,  Immortality  ! 


THE  KELTIC  SONATA* 

I  dream  of  Eire  and  the  ancient  days, 

When  Wonder  woke  in  all  men's  hearts,  and  Beauty, 

Wild  bride  of  Wonder,  walked  the  ways  of  earth. 

In  those  days  queenly  women  were  in  Eire, 

And  warriors  valorous,  mighty,  generous,  fierce, 

Battled,  and  loved,  and  lived  a  throbbing  life. 


I  see  bright  Deirdre  walking  in  her  dhoon, 
Thrice-guarded  by  a  monarch's  jealous  watch, 
And  yet  love  entered  in  ;  I  see  her  clasped 
In  Neeshe's  arms  :      I  mark  their  flight  to  Alba, 
Their  exile,  and  their  trustful  glad  return, 
And  the  swift  tragedy  of  Cunhuar's  wrath  ! 
I  hear  the  heart  of  earth's  most  lovely  woman 
Breaking  in  wild  immortal  strains  of  grief. 


90 


I  see  the  Red  Branch  shattered. 

There  apart 

Vestured  somehow  with  sad  nobility 
Beyond  that  noble  knighthood,  stands  the  dark 
Cuhullin  ;  and  his  eyes  long  hot  with  war 
Are  haunted  now,  remembering  how  he  killed 
His  only  son,  unknowing  what  he  did  ; 
Feeling  at  last  too  great  the  weariness 
Of  many  scores  of  battles,  since  fate  cast 
Upon  his  spear  his  brother  Faerdiah. 


And  now  against  the  flare  of  a  weeping  West 
Waits  he,  Cuhullin,  guardian  of  the  ford, 
And  from  the  red  and  whirling  cloud  of  battle 
Lightning-like  flashes  the  fell  spear  of  Lewy, 
And  great  Cuhullin  falls  —  Cuhullin  falls  !  — 
The  heavens  are  troubled  and  the  hills  are  shaken, 
The  winds  and  waters  cry.      But  all  the  host 
Of  Maeve  the  War-Queen  clash  exulting  spears 
And  shout  triumphantly,  and  rush  —  they  stop  — 
Cuhullin  is  not  dead  !     That  mighty  one 
Has  risen,  and  around  a  pillar-stone 
Has  cast  his  bloody  girdle,  and  has  bound 
Its  bracing  girth  about  his  breast.      Erect, 
Full-armed,  a  terror  in  the  day,  he  stands, 
Facing  all  Connacht  ;   and  the  exulting  host 
Mad-crowding  thru  the  ford,  are  struck  aghast, 


And  in  a  frenzy  of  wild  fear  shrink  back, 

Faltering  trembling-tongued  "  We  cannot  fight 

Immortal  gods  :      Cuhullin  is  not  dead  !  " 

And  when  that  host  of  warriors  has  gone 

Like  fine  dust  blowing  down  the  wind,  that  form 

Firm-braced  before  the  pillar -stone,  grows  limp, 

And  droops,  and  strains  the  girdle  ;  then  come  ravens 

And  shadow  with  grey  plumes  the  glazing  eyes  ; 

And  all  is  silent,  save  the  gentle  drip 

Of  oozing  drops  of  blood  ;  now  that  has  ceased. 

A  wind  blows  softly  from  some  distant  place, 
Kissing  his  hair  ;  I  hear  it  singing  low 
"  Cuhullin  lives  ;   Cuhullin  is  not  dead  !  " 

*  The  Keltic  Sonata,  for  pianoforte,  which  is  perhaps  the 
masterpiece  of  the  late  Edward  MacDowell's  work  in  musical 
composition,  is  in  three  movements.  The  first  movement  gives 
expression  to  the  mood  induced  by  a  contemplation  of  the  whole 
body  of  Gaelic  legend  of  the  Heroic  time.  The  second  is  a 
musical  version  of  the  tragic  story  of  Deirdre,  ' '  the  fairest 
woman  on  the  ridge  of  the  world."  The  third  movement  is 
inspired  by  the  life  of  the  champion  Cuhullin  ;  the  final  passages 
tell  of  his  heroic  death,  and  draw  from  the  contemplation  of  that 
episode  a  noble  lesson. 

Eire  is  the  correct  name  of  Ireland.  Cunhuar  was  king  of 
Ulster  about  the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era.  He  was  head 
of  the  military  order  of  the  Red  Branch,  which  split  into  two 
factions  after  the  King's  treacherous  murder  of  the  husband  of 
Deirdre  and  his  brothers.  One  faction  joined  Maeve,  Queen  of 
Connacht,  in  her  expedition  against  Cunhuar.  Of  those  who 
remained  true  to  the  King,  the  greatest  was  Cuhullin. 

92 


OF  STRAY  GATHERINGS 


THE  POET  EXPLAINS 

If  you  should  wonder  that  I  sing  of  sorrows 
So  often,  and  so  seldom  with  the  joy 

Of  God's  appointed  singers,  the  wild  birds, 
Think  :      All  my  yesterdays  and  all  my  morrows 
Are  spent  with  men  and  cities,  things  that  cloy  ; 

Think  :      I  have  no  wild  voice,  but  tear-dimmed  words. 


93 


WINE  OF  DENMARK 

Oh  bring  me  wine  of  Denmark  !      Sure  there  grow 
Grapes  on  some  dark  vines  close  to  Elsinore, 
Whose  roots  do  worm-like  eat  dead  Hamlet's  dust, 
Whose  wine  will  burn  with  fires  of  Hamlet's  blood  : 
Oh  bring  me  wine  of  Denmark  ! 

Every  grape 

That  purples  on  a  terraced  Rhenish  hill  — 
A  hill  with  some  age- weary  castle  crowned  — 
May  bear  a  drop  of  blood,  that  long  ago 
Clotted  the  grass  and  slowly  soaked  to  earth  ; 
And  those  light  liquors  that  from  Italy 
Or  fiery  France  are  come,  they  may  be  quick 
And  vivid  with  the  essences  of  lives 
Lost  long  ago,  when  each  man  bore  a  blade  ; 
But  in  some  public  combat,  baron's  brawl 
Or  clash  of  marshalled  hosts,  for  crowns  and  kingdoms 
And  strong-walled  cities  striving,  flowed  that  blood. 
I  will  not  of  those  wines  :      I  cannot  stir 
With  the  grim  spirit  of  those  sturdy  men 
Who  fought  their  open  fight  beneath  the  sun, 
And  conquered,  and  went  down,  with  strength  superb. 
For  I  am  of  the  weakly -strong,  who  know 
The  secret  sorrow,  the  strife  within  the  soul, 
The  swords  more  keen  than  steel  that  pierce  the  heart 
From  deep  within  ;   I  know,  and  would  forget. 
So,  wine  of  northern  Denmark  !      Do  not  think 


94 


The  vine  is  all  too  tender  for  that  clime  ; 
No,  surely  there  grow  grapes  at  Elsinore, 
For  grapes  are  the  tragic  fruit.      There  is  a  vine, 
There  must  be,  with  dark  leaves  and  darker  fruit, 
And  roots  deep  in  the  brooding  skull  of  Hamlet, 
Deep  in  the  dust  of  sweet  Ophelia's  breast  ; 
And  Oh,  the  wine,  the  wine  of  those  wild  grapes, 
The  wine  of  madness,  I  would  drink  of  that  ! 
Drink  and  be  madly  foolish,  madly  wise, 
Mad  with  love-sorrows  —  drink  again  and  be 
Like  one  who  sleeps  while  horrid  deeds  are  done  ; 
Like  a  bird,  singing  an  hour  since  his  mate, 
Now  all  forgotten,  fell  a  quivering  prey  ; 
Like  a  snapt  flower,  flying  on  the  wind, 
Loosed  from  the  grimy  earth,  freed  from  the  clod, 
A  wild  sweet  wonder  for  a  little  space 
Before  the  fall,  the  end  !  —  Oh  like  to  her, 
Gently  released  from  memories  of  the  past, 
Griefs  and  more  grievous  joys,  and  singing  sent 
With  steps  unfearing  to  the  final  peace. 


Oh  from  this  hateful  and  unholy  calm 
To  be  released,  tho  madness  be  the  way  ! 
Mad  would  I  be,  mad  with  remembered  joys, 
And  the  dull  smart  of  endless  vain  regrets  ; 
Mad  with  the  fearful  press  of  present  fate, 
And  the  long  future,  hopeless,  futile,  dead, 


Dead  before  birth  !      Ho,  wine  of  Elsinore  ! 
That  I  may  shake  from  this  unnatural  calm, 
And  shatter  into  madness,  meeter  state, 
And  then  —  a  day  of  splendid  frenzy  spent  — 
Suddenly  shudder  off  all  memories, 
And  softly  sink  into  a  dreamless  flood 
Of  cool,  oblivious  waters,  and  be  still. 


NIAV 

A  sudden  whisper  of  melody  out  of  the  West  : 

Niav  is  calling,  calling. 

A  chill  dew  is  falling, 

The  grass  is  chill, 

Moon -grey  the  hill  ; 

The  quick  wind  is  keen. 
For  him  who  hears,  it  is  nevermore  to  rest. 

Far  lights  are  seen 

On  ridges  rolling  or  on  dark  peaks  still  ; 

There  are  beckoning  fingers  of  flame  on  the  rim  of  the  West  ; 
There  are  sudden  desires  in  hearts  where  content  were  best  ; 
There  is  mystical  laughter  and  gleam  of  a  gold-veiled  breast  : 

Grey  dew  is  falling 

And  Niav  is  calling 

With  a  wild  quick  whisper 

Calling  —  calling  ! 


ALVEE 

A     YOUNG    IRISH     POET    OF    PAGAN    TIMES    SINGS 

Alvee  of  the  curly  hair, 

There  is  none  like  Alvee  ! 
When  I  saw  her  first  I  said 
"  Of  all  maidens  quick  or  dead 

None  was  e'er  like  Alvee  !  " 


Alvee  of  the  curly  hair 
From  the  sunset  came, 
Like  a  shimmering  flame 

The  sun  sends  east  at  ev'ning. 


Alvee's  curls  are  berry-brown  ; 
'Round  my  heart  they  twined  them. 

In  her  eyes  what  fleeting  fires  ! 

Visions,  longings,  loves,  desires  ? 
Who  shall  know  ?     They  come,  they  go, 
Calling  me  to  find  them. 


"  Alvee  of  the  head  of  curls, 
Girls  are  none  like  thee,  O  Alvee  ! 
In  the  rocky  North  are  none, 

In  the  green  South  none  like  thee  ; 


97 


In  the  fiery  East  not  one, 

Nor  in  all  the  West,  Machree  ; 
And  the  wandering  sevenfold  sea 
In  any  land  finds  none  like  thee  ! ' ' 

So  I  sang  to  Alvee, 

And  my  harp  with  sweet  tones  trembled. 


Alvee  of  the  little  laugh, 

Half  I  won  the  heart  within  thee 
With  that  song,  altho  thou  only 
Laughed,  and  ran,  and  left  me  lonely, 

Planning  how  to  wholly  win  thee. 


"Alvee  of  the  head  of  curls, 
Whirls  a  storm  within  my  heart 

It  is  love  that  madly  swirls, 

Alvee  of  the  little  curls  — 

Love  and  thou  are  in  my  heart  ! 

Thou  alone  shalt  have  my  praise, 

Thou  alone  shalt  rule  my  days, 
Thou  alone  my  heart  !  " 


Alvee,  wild  as  any  bird, 

Heard  the  songs  I  made  her, 
Listened  as  I  played  her  ; 


And  the  while  she  heard, 

Love  was  born  in  Alvee, 
Wild  as  any  bird  ! 


Alvee' s  eyes  are  large  and  soft, 

Never  doe's  large  eyes  were  softer  ; 
Merry  eyes  they  are  most  oft, 

But  sometimes  tears  follow  laughter  ; 

Most  they're  filled  with  sweet  wild  wonder. 
In  those  eyes  I  read,  She  loved  me  ! 
And  I  sang,  as  passion  moved  me  : 

"  Alvee,  Alvee,  we  are  under 
Aengus'  spell  ;  his  birds  around  us 
Fly  and  cry  ;  their  cries  have  bound  us 

In  a  golden  web  forever, 

Oh  forever  and  forever  ! 
See  their  milk-white  wings  flash  by  us  ! 

Hear  their  song  of  joy  and  sadness  ! 
What  is  that  they  loudly  cry  us  ? 

Rise,  arise  to  rapture's  gladness, 

Love  acknowledged,  glory,  madness, 

0  ye  lovers,  0  ye  lovers  ! 

Aengus,  he  the  Love -God,  hovers 
Over  you  ;  the  Ancient  Mother, 

Dana,  gives  her  blessing  to  you; 

Aedh,  the  Fiery  One,  breathes  thru  you  — 
Give  yourselves  to  one  another  ! 


99 


Thus  the  birds  of  Aengus,  flying 
Over  us,  A  Roon,  are  crying, 
Crying  to  us,  Alvee,  Alvee, 
Crying,  Alvee,  crying  !  " 


"Alvee  from  the  Western  Sea, 

Free,  wild,  wayward  as  the  water, 

Surges  wave -like  love  in  me, 

Wave-like  rises  love  in  thee  : 

Let  them  mingle,  sea  with  sea, 

Me  with  thee,  Mananan's  Daughter  ! 


Alvee  of  the  heart  of  love 

Strove  against  me  then  no  longer, 
Maiden  modesty  to  prove, 

But  acknowledged  passion  stronger 
In  her  beating  heart  of  love. 


Alvee  of  the  warm  desire, 

Fire  and  wave  in  one  was  Alvee 

When  she  gave  me  love  entire, 

Wild  as  wave  and  warm  as  fire. 

Now  together  we  conspire 

To  make  life  a  wondrous  thing, 
And  our  hearts  together  sing 

100 


Like  the  Love-God's  winged  choir  ; 
And  our  passion  does  not  tire, 

And  our  joy  with  buoyant  wing 
Rises  still  as  we  conspire 
To  know  life  and  love  entire. 

Oh  that  I  could  better  sing 

Of  my  all  too-wondrous  Alvee, 
Woman  of  the  Wave  and  Fire, 

Of  the  all  too-wondrous  woman, 

Alvee,  Alvee,  Alvee  ! 


Machree  :      My  Heart  !  —  Gaelic  term  of  endearment. 

Aengus  :      Spirit  of  Love  among  the  Gaelic  Immortals. 

Dana  :  Earth -Mother  among  the  Gaelic  Immortals  (pro 
nounce  dhawn-a). 

Aedh  :  One  of  the  Gaelic  Immortals  whose  name  signified 
fire  (pronounce  a). 

A  Roon  ;      O  Beloved  :      Gaelic  term  of  endearment. 

Mananan  :      Ruler  of  the  Sea  among  Gaelic  Immortals. 


101 


CANZONET  ANTICO  : 

CON  GIOIA  — CON  LAGRIME 

One  day  when  I  was  very  glad, 

One  cloudless  afternoon, 
I  played  upon  my  violin 

An  old  sweet  by -gone  tune  — 
Played  for  the  happiness  I  had, 

The  joys  I  hoped  for  soon. 


An  old  man  sitting  in  the  sun 
Grew  rapt  to  hear  me  play  ; 

The  look  that  came  upon  his  face 
Meant  more  than  I  can  say  ; 

And  when  a  mist  was  in  his  eyes 
He  rose  and  went  away. 


A  PRAYER  OF  VERY  OLD  MEN 

Ah  Time,  too  cruel,  thy  demon  years 
Having  stolen  our  laughter,  steal  our  tears  ; 
O  being  content  our  mirth  to  keep, 
Relent,  relent,  and  let  us  weep  ! 

102 


A  SONG  AND  A  SEQUEL 

One  day  I  sat  a-singing — 

One  day  when  I  was  young  — 

Beside  a  lass  whose  love  I  had, 
And  here's  the  song  I  sung, 
And  here's  the  song  I  sung  : 

**  Oh,  life  is  meant  for  loving 
And  time  is  meant  for  Joy, 

And  the  world  is  meant  for  you  and  me, 
For  we  are  girl  and  boy, 
Oh  we  are  girl  and  boy  ! ' ' 


Alas  !     It  was  not  easy 

To  make  the  world  my  own  ; 
Too  long  with  time  I  linger 

Since  ev'ry  joy  has  flown  ; 
And  low  along  life's  pathway 

Love's  bitter  fruit  is  strewn. 


103 


TO  A  LITTLE  GIRL  ROMPING 

Little  girl, 

Little  girl  so  sweet  ! 

The  wind  blows  wild  your  tresses, 

And  swirls  your  pretty  dresses  ; 

The  wind  lays  soft  caresses 

On  your  cheek. 

Cold  and  bleak 

May  the  winds  never  be 

That  you  meet  ! 


THE  SAD  POET  TELLETH  OF  HIS  SONG 

I  sang  my  song  under  the  willow-tree  ; 

I  stood  in  shadow,  that  none  might  see  ; 

My  voice  was  low,  like  sighing, 

My  words  were  slow  birds  flying. 

My  gentle  harp  was  strung  with  grey 

Such  as  no  swift  gleam  might  betray  ; 

And  all  the  music  I  could  waken 

Was  like  a  wind  terribly  shaken 

From  the  black  wings  of  Azrael,  making  bruit 

Thru  the  vines  of  a  vinyard  bare  of  fruit. 


104 


A  NOTE 

In  the  contemporaneous  world  Poets,  like  Accidents,  will 
happen  ;  like  accidents  also,  they  will  manage  to  secure  a  care 
fully-minimized  tolerance  from  the  charity  of  men.  As  to  a 
deliberate  welcoming  provision  for  them  —  it  is  concept  still 
beyond  the  Organized  Mind  of  Man. 

I  had  written  poems  nearly  nine  years  before  I  ventured  to 
beg  the  editors  for  a  way  into  print.  The  reward  of  my  modesty 
has  been  a  generous  acceptance  of  over  eighty  poems  in  a  year- 
and-a-half.  As  gradually  and  sincerely  as  I  had  come  to  the 
conviction  that  I  was  ready  to  publish  serially,  I  became  con 
vinced  that  I  had  the  rough  matrix  of  my  first  volume  in  hand  ; 
I  cut  and  polished  till  I  knew  as  only  the  artist  can  know  that  my 
work  was  as  perfect  as  I  could  make  it  in  this  decade.  One  of  the 
very  few  publishers  who  produce  books  of  poems  at  their  own 
risk  paid  me  the  high  compliment  of  refusing  to  publish  for  me 
because  he  thought  I  could  make  a  still  better  book  in  a  year  or 
so  more  ;  and,  my  plans  preventing  me  giving  time  to  negotia 
tions  for  other  imprimaturs,  I  have  had  to  publish  for  myself. 

I  must  thank  those  friends  and  those  strangers  whose  gener 
osity  has  enabled  me  to  do  this.  At  the  same  time  I  must 
explain  that  I  have  had  to  economize  on  space,  so  that  I  cannot 
write  here  the  intended  essay  to  point  out  just  how  bad  a  few  of 
the  foregoing  poems  are,  and  just  how  good  are  a  few  others. 

I  have  never  practised  poetic  composition  as  so  many  do, 
by  sitting  down  to  write  now  a  series  of  sonnets,  now  a  dozen 
triolets  or  vilanelles,  now  a  ballade  ;  and  I  deeply  believe  that  to 

1 06 


practise  in  that  way  is  harmful  if  not  fatal.  I  have  written  poems 
because  my  spirit  and  my  mind  has  been  so  stirred  that  high 
utterance  became  at  once  a  necessity  and  to  some  degree  a  pos 
sibility,  and  I  have  attained  greater  perfection  by  being  true  to 
my  sense  of  beauty,  while  letting  each  impulse  dictate  its  own 
formal  materialization.  That  I  have  come  to  write  in  such  a 
manner  that  many  undeservedly  praise  me  as  an  imitator  of 
Yeats,  is  because  I  greatly  believe  that  Yeats  has  carried  English 
lyric  poetry  to  its  highest  point,  in  the  purity  of  his  restrictions 
as  well  as  in  the  new  subtlety  of  his  rhythms  and  the  magic  of 
his  symbolism.  Still  I  allow  each  impulse  to  dictate  its  own 
form,  so  that  many  of  my  latest  poems,  as,  The  Lover  Tells 
His  Dreams  Of  His  Lady,  are  in  a  manner  Yeats  has  never  used  ;  ~> 
but  these,  and  such  sincere  attempts  to  express  our  times  as, 
Northward  !  and  Annus  Mirabilis,  I  do  not  believe  are  in  the 
best  lyric  manner. 

The  Lover  Bids  All  Passionate  Women  Mourn,  The 
Lover  Praises  His  Lady's  Pride,  The  Lover  Scorns  All  Women 
But  His  Lady  ;  The  Poet  Sees  That  Truth  And  Passion  Are 
One  ;  To  One  Seen  In  Bohemia  ;  these  and  a  few  others  I  love 
because  I  know  they  are  purely  if  not  greatly  beautiful  in  spirit 
and  in  form.  These,  and  my  Proem,  The  Lover  Thinks  Of 
The  Day  When  He  Met  His  Lady  First,  The  Lover  Tells 
His  Lady  Who  Has  Grown  Cold  To  Him  Why  Love  Still 
Lives,  The  Lover  Reminds  God  Of  Their  Compact,  The 
Lover  Serves  His  Lady  At  Vespers  On  The  Hills,  In  Time  Of 
Failure  The  Lover  Takes  Comfort  In  The  Thought  Of  His 
Love  ;  Conscience,  They  Went  Forth  To  Battle  But  They 

107 


Always  Fell;  "And  We  Shall  Dance,"  In  A  Cafe,  Mac- 
Dowell :  An  Elegy  ;  and  a  few  others,  express  the  best  my 
spirit  and  mind  have  for  the  world.  If  commercialists,  if  Brah 
mins,  if  dilletanti,  scorn  them,  I  am  consoled  by  the  conscious 
ness  that  I  have  labored  sincerely  and  proudly  ;  that  is  all  one 
can  do  ! 

I  regret  that  I  have  never  written  any  worthy  poems  for 
Ireland,  for  my  Catholic  faith,  for  the  many  dear  friends  in 
whom  I  am  fortunate  ;  but  the  Muse  will  not  be  put  at  the 
churn  ;  and  I  have  had  to  skim  the  cream  most  carefully  for  this 
little  moonstone  cup.  Drink  who  will,  a  blessing  goes  with  it. 

June  5,  1911.  SHAEMAS    O  SHEEL. 


ERRATA 

Page  1 1 ,  line  1 1 ,  insert  their  between  limbs  and  rhythms. 
Page  1 4,  line  1 1 ,  read  wing  for  wind. 
Page  70,  line  17,  read  where  for  were. 
Page  94,  line  2,  read  vine  for  vines. 
Page  107,  line  2,  read  have  for  has. 


108 


INDEX  OF  GROUPS 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ROSE 

THAT  IS  WHITE  AND  RED 

THE  ROSE-BREATH  6 

THORNS  12 

THE  ROSE  IN  HER  GARDEN  23 

THE  PERIL  OF  ROSE-QUESTING  30 

FOUND  38 

BERRIES  OF  WISDOM  55 

ILL-WOVEN  GARLANDS 

OF  A  SEASON'S  BLOSSOMS  66 

OF  CITY  FLOWERS  76 

OF  SEA  FLOWERS  83 

OF  WILLOW  AND  IMMORTELS  88 

STRAY  GATHERINGS  93 

A  NOTE  1  06 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  the  publishers 

of  Harper's  Weekly,   The  New  York    Sun,   The  New  York 

Times  Sunday  Magazine,  The  Forum,  The  Papyrus,  The 
Messenger  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  The  New-York  Tribune,  The 

Springfield  Republican  and  The  Boston  Transcript,  who  have 
given  me  permission  to  reprint  poems  which  originally  appeared 
in  those  publications. 

109 


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